


Hello, My Dear

by wrathkitty



Series: As Q Like It [1]
Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: A Little Glass of Water Please, Cameos, Comedy, Easter Eggs, F/M, Ficlet, Fluff and Humor, Friendship, Frogs, Games, Humor, Idiots in Love, Jean-Luc Picard Is So Done, Light Angst, Lower Decks references, MLP inside jokes, Misanthrope, No (Your name), Q (Star Trek) - Freeform, Q (Star Trek) Antics, Q Being Q (Star Trek), Q Continuum, Reader-Insert, Replicators, Romance, Shenanigans, Slow Burn, Snark, Sort of involves Lower Decks, Spiders, Star Trek: The Next Generation - Freeform, Star Trek: The Next Generation References, Starship Enterprise (Star Trek), no y/n, pop culture references
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:06:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 26,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26937856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wrathkitty/pseuds/wrathkitty
Summary: Stories of the life and times of Q and his mortal more-than-just-a-friend, Reader. Because being omnipotent doesn’t mean a thing when it comes to relationships.The words, 'Hi, Captain' died in your throat before you had finished crossing the Ready Room threshold, along with all hope of this being an ordinary replicator repair job.Captain Picard was seated at his desk, wearing That Face and looking harassed.At least ten frogs had taken up residence throughout the room, croaking every so often as they hopped about.…and Q lounged on the couch, making a show of examining his nails and lying in wait.“Ensign!” he jovially exclaimed, sitting up as soon as he spotted you. “Come in, come in. Jean-Luc and I were just having adelightfuldiscussion about upright hominids and amphibians…”He paused, and in a voice laced with equal parts velvet and malice, slyly finished:“…And you.”Goddamn it, why couldn’t it have been tribbles?
Relationships: Q (Star Trek)/Original Female Character(s), Q (Star Trek)/Reader, Q/OFC
Series: As Q Like It [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2155218
Comments: 151
Kudos: 161





	1. I Don’t Believe We’ve Met

“The replicator in Captain Picard’s ready room won’t make anything other than frogs.”

You looked down at the PADD to re-read the repair ticket – sure enough, it had come from the man himself.

_Replicator malfunction – ready room. Only frogs. (No tea.)_

“This has to be a joke.”

“Nope,” your supervisor replied. She took the PADD back and assigned your name to the repair code. “You’d better get up there, he listed it as a Priority One.”

You didn’t move. You hated the Bridge.

“Are you sure there aren’t any repair tickets from somewhere else?” you asked hopefully, trying to stall. “I mean, Engineering is way overdue for a plasma leak, why don’t I go by –”

“Dismissed, Ensign.”

Scowling, you glumly headed to the turbolift. It was still possible you had just become an unwilling participant in a very elaborate prank, but you knew better. Nobody on your shift was known for having a sense of humor, and your week had been going too well for it not to get ruined by having to step foot on Deck One.

You dreaded Bridge repair tickets. Not because the repairs themselves were difficult, but the _timing_.

Inevitably you were always called up right before peace negotiations ended in the words, “Fire photons,” or the Borg deciding they needed a little more excitement in their life, or the ship unexpectedly falling into a wormhole by way of a quantum singularity. You still broke into a cold sweat whenever you heard the words, “Romulans,” “Neutral Zone,” and “gentrification” used in the same sentence.

But your most recent incident on the Bridge had left you seriously debating the merits of putting in for a ship transfer. The _Enterprise_ was the flagship of the fleet, but this kind of bullshit never happened on the _Cerritos_.

* * *

You had been elbows deep in the aft ops console that morning, slightly hungover from the night before and minding your own business, when Q dropped by for a visit.

As he was wont to do, he immediately began overstaying his welcome, but instead of standing in solidarity with your very unamused colleagues, you found yourself secretly enjoying the spectacle. Captain Picard’s face was a picture, and Q was in especially rare form, lamenting about the decline in quality of Earth entertainment over the last four hundred years – with the added bonus of costume changes.

“The whole place is dull as dishwater now,” he was saying as he paraded around the Bridge. “And to think it used to have character! The Crusades,” his Starfleet uniform disappeared, replaced by a white tunic and chain mail, “the Spanish Inquisition,” he now wore the scarlet robes of Torquemada, “Watergate –”

A hysterical snort of laughter escaped from you.

Q’s reference (and outfit) to Watergate had gone sailing over everyone’s heads but your own. Reading about twentieth century Earth was a guilty pleasure of yours, and the thought of sloppy political espionage being a landmark event in the _entire_ history of the planet – combined with the sight of Q clad in an ugly brown 70s style coat-and-tie – struck you as wildly funny.

Mortified, you clapped a hand over your mouth and hoped no one had heard, but it was too late. Q spun on his heel, spotting you almost immediately, and his sharp gaze caught yours and held.

You looked back at him, transfixed…and promptly ducked behind the ops console.

As soon as you were certain you were out of his sightline, you yanked off the first circuit panel your fingers touched and set about pretending to fix it as if your life depended on it — and judiciously continued to keep your eyes glued on your work when a silvery white flash of light appeared in your periphery, followed by a pair of black Starfleet-issued boots.

Then the circuit panel vanished, the boots came a half-step nearer, and you reluctantly tilted your head up to look into the face of the Federation’s self-appointed favorite misanthrope.

Q towered over you, watching and waiting. He cast a long shadow by his height alone, the lines of his uniform made him appear taller still, and you were literally kneeling crouched at his feet. You were never one to be easily intimidated, but if there had been even the slightest chance of bolting around him and making a run for it, you would already be cowering behind Lieutenant Worf.

“Hello, my dear,” he purred when you kept silent. He leaned down to offer you his hand, then casually stated the obvious: “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

You warily studied his open palm and debated your next move. Playing along with whatever game he was up to was probably the safest option. The question was what species you would be once you were back on your feet. 

“Are you going turn me into a frog?” you blurted out.

Q thoughtfully cocked his head, eyes fixed on yours, and then lifted his shoulder in a half-shrug.

“I haven’t decided yet.”

A mercurial smile played about his mouth as he offered his hand to you again, and this time you grabbed it before you gave him any other bright ideas.

He helped you up in one quick swoop, then subtly drew you towards him just a little too close to be polite. Omnipotent or not, you didn’t like being toyed with and stood your ground (the little of it he had left you) instead of pulling away.

“Stay away from her, Q,” Picard warned. “Better yet, just get off my bridge.”

“Oh, psh-tosh, _mon capitaine,”_ Q lightly scoffed. He had still not looked away from your face, and judging by the gleam in his eyes, he seemed pleased by what he saw. “We both know I do what I like. It’s simply a matter of when and where and…” His mouth split into a wicked grin, “With whom I choose to behave.”

Your heart stuttered as he leaned in even closer, and in a voice filled with mirth, whispered in your ear, “But where’s the fun in _that?”_

In the next breath he was gone, leaving you staring at the empty space he had occupied only seconds before. He had been near enough that you could already feel the loss of his warmth, but more troubling than _that_ realization was the fact you had no idea what the hell had just happened…or why.

Weeks later, you still weren’t sure what to think of the encounter, but no one had looked at you quite the same way since. How were you supposed to know that an omnipotent entity found pre-first contact Earth history to be interesting? Or that he would turn his sights on you after discovering you both shared a mutual hobby?

* * *

 _This is going to be an easy job,_ you told yourself as you counted the remaining decks between you and the Bridge. _You’ve repaired plenty of replicators. A couple of diagnostics, swap out a few replic-diodes, and you’ll be on your way._

True, this was your first frog-related service call, but nothing could scare you after the tribble outbreak in Ten Forward.

(Which wouldn’t have happened if Guinan had been paying better attention and stopped Lieutenant Barclay from drowning his sorrows in a bottle of Romulan ale after the whole “Goddess of Empathy” incident. By the time she thought to check on him, he had reprogrammed all the replicators and was surrounded by tribbles because he thought they might make better friends than people, and you ended up having to pull back-to-back shifts rewriting code and trying to explain to a _breathtakingly_ agitated Lieutenant Worf that use of his bat’leth was not going to be a more efficient way of solving this problem. The only reason you were still on speaking terms with Guinan was her agreeing to ban Barclay from the bar; as for Barclay, you extracted a blood oath from him that he understood you were going to be _just friends_ , and started joining him occasionally on the holodeck.)

Shuddering, you leaned against the wall of the turbolift and resumed thinking happy thoughts.

The _Enterprise_ was presently en route to Vulcan, traveling through known space. The odds of getting tangled up in a Gorn wedding were slim to none.

Rumor had it that Commander Riker and Counselor Troi were back on (each other) again, and if Counselor Troi was in a good mood, _everyone_ on the Bridge was in a good mood.

Last you heard, the Cardassian Empire had fallen so deeply in debt to the Ferengis that they were too busy re-negotiating their high-interest loan to be paying much attention to the rest of the quadrant.

This was going to be fine.

You felt the turbolift slow to a stop and squared your shoulders. When the doors slid apart, you scurried out, kept your eyes straight ahead and walked with purpose. You had almost made past Tactical without being noticed when Commander Riker glanced up and saw you.

“Good luck, Ensign,” he quipped as you went past, then added a cheerful, “We’re all counting on you.”

You didn’t trust yourself to reply with anything that wouldn’t qualify as insubordination. Instead, you gave a thumb’s up to Mister Congeniality, walked the last few steps to the Ready Room, and depressed the door chime.

_“Come.”_

Plastering a smile on your face, you took a deep breath and stepped inside, but the words, _Hi, Captain,_ died in your throat before you had finished crossing the threshold.

Captain Picard was seated at his desk, wearing That Face and looking harassed.

At least ten frogs had taken up residence in various corners of the room, croaking every so often as they hopped about.

…and Q lounged on the couch, making a show of examining his nails and lying in wait.

“Ensign!” he jovially exclaimed, sitting up as soon as he spotted you. “Come in, come in. Jean-Luc and I were just having a _delightful_ conversation about upright hominids and amphibians…”

He paused, and in a voice laced with equal parts velvet and malice, slyly finished:

“…And you.”

Goddamn it, why couldn’t it have been tribbles?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you catch all the Easter eggs?
> 
> For those keeping track, this story takes place not long after the episode “Déjà Q,” but a number of Q's mannerisms are based on his portrayal in "True Q." All the inside jokes and references are canon, but not necessarily in chronological order.
> 
> And for those of you curious about how Q's first words to Reader are intended to be read...It's exactly the way he says the same line in "True Q" when he visits Amanda Rogers in her quarters. There is _something_ about the inflection and intonation in JdL's voice when he read that particular line -- calculating, sly, a mixture of condescension and malice with the potential for fondness lurking beneath -- that completely changes the nuance of the phrase itself. And of course that moment is not on YouTube. Oh well.
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](https://wrathkitty.tumblr.com/)! Come say hi.


	2. Can I Play for a Promotion Instead?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoever catches three or more references/inside jokes gets everyone a sneak peek at Chapter 3. And whoever catches the My Little Pony reference gets ... a pony.

“Ensign, you may return to your post,” Captain Picard informed you, forcing a tight smile. “The nature of the repair in question is –”

 _“Completely_ above her pay grade,” Q drawled.

You threw him a dirty look.

“But,” he continued, grinning at you now, “She’s more than welcome to try.” He gestured grandly towards the replicator, and chuckled when the little frog sitting in the center of Captain Picard’s computer let out a perfectly timed croak.

“She’s got nothing to do with this,” the Captain snapped. He had picked up a nearby PADD and was trying to gently nudge the frog off his desk using the edge of the device.

Q’s eyes lingered on you for a few seconds too long, then shifted his attention back to your commanding officer.

“Oh, come now, Jean-Luc,” he scolded, sounding so wounded he might as well have been pouting. “Think of this as me helping you out with performance management reviews.”

“Performance management strikes me as being a little pedestrian for your tastes,” Captain Picard dryly observed. He gave the frog another careful nudge, then gave up when the creature crawled off his computer and onto the PADD.

“Most of the known universe is a little pedestrian for my tastes,” Q retorted. “But…” His gaze slid over to you and he winked, “every so often, I find reason to make an exception.”

Another well-timed croak saved you from opening your mouth and asking him if anywhere in the unknown universe offered lessons in subtlety. Feeling your face grow hot, you left the Captain and Q to continue their parley and moved to the alcove to investigate the replicator.

Nothing seemed amiss with the device upon first glance, hardly a surprise given the most logical culprit was presently sitting on the couch. You booted up the diagnostic nevertheless, still monitoring the discussion taking place on the other side of the room as you waited. Captain Picard was pinching the bridge of his nose, never a good sign.

A quiet chime came from the replicator, and you looked down at the screen to see confirmation of your suspicions: All hardware and subroutines checked out and were functioning perfectly. The LCARS analysis might as well have read 47ALPHA-Q.

Still, it was too tempting not to see the glitch in action for yourself…

 _“Tea, Earl grey, hot,”_ you whispered.

There was the usual hum-and-swirl of atoms and molecules forming together, and then a tree frog – the same shade of blue as your uniform and speckled with tiny letter “Qs” across its back – materialized on the replicator bed.

Well, now, this was funny.

Unable to resist, you reached down to try and coax the frog onto your fingertips, but it wanted nothing to do with you and took a wild leap out of the replicator, sailed neatly over your shoulder to land on the wall behind you, and then padded around the corner out of sight.

You hurried out from the alcove just in time to see the frog wandering across Captain Picard’s fish tank, leaving behind a smudgy trail on the gleaming convex surface as Livingston blithely swam by.

“In the interest of sanity,” Captain Picard was saying as you casually edged over and began wiping down the aquarium with your sleeve, “Specifically, _mine_ – is it at _all_ possible you would consider doing me the favor of skipping the usual shenanigans and get to the point behind your visit?”

You could practically hear Q’s shit-eating grin come over his face. Still scrubbing, you studied his upside-down reflection in the glass and saw he had clasped a hand to his chest as if aghast.

“Well, I _could_ ,” he agreed, “but context is everything. And _so_ much time has gone by since I’ve visited.”

“Q, eons could go by and it would still be not long enough.”

“Now, now, _mon Capitaine_ , there’s no need to exaggerate. It’s been what, two, three weeks _–”_

“It’s been eighty-eight days,” you interrupted without thinking.

Q’s voice trailed off, and heavy, excruciating silence fell. Even the frogs were quiet.

You would have killed for an ops console to hide behind at that moment.

Cringing, you slowly turned around to see both men looking back at you wearing matched expressions of shock, for very, very different reasons.

“Ensign Mariner was keeping track before she transferred to the _Quito,_ sir,” you sputtered, hoping to God that Captain Picard was not envisioning you holed up in your quarters, marking down the days on the wall by your bed each night. “She made a sign.”

Q’s eyes lit up like Christmas. There was the oddest tickling sensation inside your head, and in the next moment he was unfurling the large poster that had been hanging in the Lower Decks lounge for the past three months.

***SAFETY IS NO Q-INCIDENCE*  
**

**THIS MANY DAYS HAVE GONE BY WITHOUT Q SOWING DISCORD ON THE ENTERPRISE**

_~~7 (One whole week, guys!)~~ _

_~~8, 9, 13 ,18, 19, 20, 21, 26~~ _

_~~AN ENTIRE MONTH (Think he got kicked out of the Continuum again?)~~ _

_~~41, 43, 44, 45~~ _

_~~52 (Am I the only one updating this thing?)~~ _

_~~75 LL &P, dudes. Headed to the Quito, Lavelle’s taking over from here (Thanks, man!)~~ _

_~~76, 77, 78, 79, 80, 83, 84, 87,~~ 88 _

**_QEEP UP THE GREAT WORK!_ **

The shit-eating-grin was back.

“She also made one to count down the days until Captain Picard Day,” you added, just in case this knowledge might mitigate guilt by association. 

Another flash, and now Q was holding an oversized calendar.

**Captain Picard Day 2368**

**MAKE IT SO  
**

At the bottom was a cutout photo of a white ceramic mug with _‘Alpha Quadrant’s Greatest Boss’_ printed across the front, and a scribbled note in Beckett Mariner’s handwriting:

_I found a guy who sells customized tchotchkes, so come find me if you want to pitch in for the group gift._

_(Or just do a direct credit transfer to Deep Space 9, ATTN: E. Garak.)_

Captain Picard released what you assumed was an unsuccessful attempt at a slow, cleansing breath.

“Next _month_? I’ve yet to receive my invitation!” Q exclaimed, feigning wide-eyed shock. Oh, don’t tell me…” He smirked, peered over the top of the calendar at Captain Picard and arched a brow. “Someone must have put Microbrain in charge of party planning instead of Riker.”

The calendar vanished.

 _“Devastated_ as I am at the prospect of missing the festivities,” he continued, slyly looking back over in your direction, “I’m afraid we’ve all gotten a little off track.”

He snapped his fingers, and next you knew you were seated on the couch, positioned between him and the desk.

“Do you know why I’ve brought you here, Ensign?” he inquired, turning to face you.

A few seconds went by before you were able to unstick your tongue. You were an adrenaline junkie, but Q’s method of getting from X to Y to Z had left your head spinning.

“Are you speaking philosophically, metaphorically, or literally?” you asked dizzily, still waiting for the pinwheels to fade from your vision.

“No, no, and no,” Q answered, sounding amused. “I am speaking _intentionally.”_ Deliberately ignoring the Captain, he crossed a leg over one knee and leisurely draped his elbow along the back of the couch as he shifted further towards you. “I’ve no doubt you know by now that you captured my attention on my last visit. One, you caught the reference – well done, by the way.”

You blinked at him, startled; the compliment seemed genuine.

“Two – you asked me a question that brought so _many_ fascinating possibilities to mind that I decided it would be worth making a return trip. Do you remember?”

The memory of the entire encounter was an indelible brand in your mind; how could you forget?

“I asked if you were going to turn me into a frog,” you answered warily. The complete absurdity of where this conversation appeared to be headed stopped you from giving it further thought.

“Correct.” He paused, studying you appraisingly, clearly choosing his next words with great care. You noticed him absently smoothing the pads of his thumb and fingers together on one hand and wondered if it was an actual restless habit or a mannerism he adopted as part of his human form. Finally he half-pursed his lips and spoke. “I’d like to play a little game,”

“We’re not interested – ” Captain Picard started to firmly interject.

“Then I suggest you crank up the dial on your curiosity, Jean-Luc,” Q snapped. The usual traces of good humor in his face darkened as he glared back at the Captain and warned, “Besides, I wasn’t talking to you.”

From the moment you had walked into the Ready Room, Q’s voice was as you had always heard it – a flamboyant contradiction of mischief and menace, each word selected and fluidly stated with precision in an aristocratic, melodious timbre. He had put humanity on trial and exposed the Federation to the Borg, but you could listen to him recite all 285 Laws of Acquisition and never be bored.

His tone now was a yellow alert klaxon, fast approaching red.

Concerned, you reached forward and tapped him on the knee, trying to redirect his attention.

“What’s the game?”

A frown ghosted across Q’s face and he momentarily glanced down at his leg, distracted, before refocusing his gaze on you.

“A test of your skills,” he lightly replied; he sounded himself again, but the faint smile playing about his mouth made you uneasy. “If you are able to successfully repair the replicator,” he continued, “Which is to say, Jean-Luc will end the day having enjoyed his precious cup of tea, Earl Grey, hot,” now the twinkle in his eyes was back, too, “Then I will allow you and your shipmates to continue to exist in the same form, just as you are now. If you are unable to fix it, every upright hominid on this ship will live out the rest of your days as…”

He let the word hover in the air and looked at you expectantly.

“Frogs,” you finished, voice flat. “This is a joke.”

“Oh, I’m quite serious,” Q assuredly informed you, then sniggered, “Well, not _all_ of you. It goes without saying that Worf will be some variety of horned toad.”

And with that glib remark, whatever intention you had of exercising caution traipsed its way straight out the shuttle bay. You didn’t like bullies – not even one who were tall, dark and omnipotent.

Starfleet guidelines were quite clear regarding expected decorum when in the presence of a commanding officer, and you had been sitting at attention out of habit – back straight, shoulders square, hands clasped in your lap. Usually you tried to be observant of protocol, particularly when you were on the Bridge, and most especially while inside the Captain’s Ready Room, _with_ the Captain.

Kicking back, lounging around, and giving yourself free reign to get mouthier by the minute was unthinkable.

You did the unthinkable.

Q’s eyes sparkled with interest as he watched you cross your arms and slouch against the couch with a petulant sigh.

“Can I play for a promotion instead?” you asked him belligerently, flashing a cocky smile that you hadn’t worn since your Academy days.

His brow quirked. Whatever reaction he had been anticipating from you, this wasn’t it.

Elbow still casually draped along the back of the couch, he lifted his other hand and interlaced his fingers, and leaned towards you.

“Let’s save that for the bonus round.”

The voice of reason in the back of your mind began shrieking at you to stop courting trouble, but this was the most excitement you’d had since…eighty-eight days ago. There once was a time, years ago, when you were rarely concerned about playing it safe or flying under the radar, and re-embracing this echo of your former self was exhilarating, no matter how briefly you permitted it. You knew the dangers that lurked beyond the neutral zone, but these were uncharted stars and backing down was the furthest thought in your mind.

Q’s smile broadened as you boldly angled yourself to face him, drawing your leg half-up, your other foot still resting on the floor.

“What about tribbles?” you suggested next, feigning coyness.

He raised his other brow.

“My dear, if this is your version of stalling, then by all means, do continue,” he drawled, eyes roving your face as you recklessly continued to match him stare-for-stare. “It’s almost charming.”

“What if I don’t want to play?” you countered. “You turn us all into tadpoles instead?”

Q’s eyes intently searched yours a few moments longer, and then he chuckled and wryly shook his head.

“Has anyone ever accused you of being clever when you’re beautiful, Ensign?” Your blood thrilled as Q leaned in even closer and finished, “Because they are _absolutely right.”_

_“Q, that’s enough!”_

Captain Picard’s bellowing voice instantly snuffed out your momentary indulgence in poor judgment. He looked sharply from you, to Q, and then back again, hard-faced before he tersely continued, “Regardless of whatever your purpose is here today, I will not allow you to put a member of my crew in this position.”

“Oh, allow, allow, _allow,”_ Q groused impatiently; there was a flash and in the next moment he had left your side and was sitting half-perched on the desk, holding a PADD.

“Jean-Luc, the only choice you have in this matter is whether you’ll be sharing living space with your fish,” he said conversationally, idly perusing the screen. “And unless the Ensign gets a move on, I’d advise you to start thinking small.” He tossed the PADD aside and folded his arms across his chest, glancing over to you. “Well, my dear? To use a 20th century colloquialism, _time’s a’wastin.’”_

You were about to ask him if he was familiar with the 21st century colloquialism _Bye, Felicia,_ but Captain Picard gave you no time to reply and rose to his feet.

“And on that point, Q, we are both in agreement,” he curtly declared. Standing, he gave his shirt a quick tug and fixed Q with a frigid look. “Now, might I suggest a different –”

“Oh, save your breath, Picard,” Q said testily. “I know what you’re trying to do, and it’s not going to work. If I had wanted to stay up late philosophizing about morality and quoting Shakespeare, I would have paid you a visit in bed.”

Wait, what?

“Nothing appears to be wrong with the replicator, sir!” you blurted out a little too loudly, jumping to your feet. “I’ll get a new one installed and bring up a portable unit for you in the meantime.”

Captain Picard was glaring rapiers across the desk at Q and said nothing.

“If that sounds okay to you,” you added awkwardly.

“Q, what is to be gained by this sort of nonsense?” the Captain demanded, showing no acknowledgement that he had heard you.

 _“Mon Capitaine,_ when have you ever known for me to divulge my motives?” Q exclaimed, grinning widely. “Perhaps I simply wanted a reason to –” He lifted a hand and snapped his fingers – “bring out the penalty box again.”

His Starfleet uniform was gone; he stood before the Captain clad in the military regalia of a decorated French army marshal – scarlet greatcoat trimmed in gold braid, immaculate white trousers and tall black boots. 

“Better a frog than nothingness, Jean-Luc,” he taunted. He drew himself up to his full height and clasped his hands behind his back. “Even if tears _are_ permitted.”

Under any other circumstance, the sight of Q moonlighting as an overgrown Napoleon would have made you dissolve into laughter, but there was far greater subtext at play here, and Captain Picard had gone ashen. To his credit, however, Q seemed to realize he had overstepped — or at the very least for once chose to correctly read the room.

“Perhaps that was a bit of a low blow, even for me,” he announced stiffly after a few moments of tense quiet. He did not sound particularly repentant but re-donned his captain’s uniform and reassumed his perch on the desk.

Captain Picard was completely unmoved by this attempt at being conciliatory, and silence reigned as he continued to glower at Q. You felt more and more like an idiot with every passing second, uncertain whether to wait for instructions or simply dismiss yourself and start sourcing parts for a new replicator. 

At last, Captain Picard broke eye contact with Q and sank back into his chair. He briefly watched one of the frogs investigating his painting of the _Enterprise_ , then let out a heavy sigh and looked over to you.

“Ensign…”

“Yes, sir?”

“Let’s just take this one step at a time,” he said soberly.

“Step where, sir?” you asked, puzzled.

Captain Picard regretfully nodded in the direction of the replicator, jaw tightening when he saw the blood start to drain from your face.

“Ah…perhaps not so clever, then,” Q observed musingly, noting that reality had dawned upon you at last. “But…” Unbidden, your eyes lifted to meet his, and he held your gaze as he quietly finished, “…Still beautiful.”

Your heart, your wretched, traitorous heart, skipped a beat.

Somewhere over the roaring in your ears came the raised voices of Captain and Q as they resumed arguing, but the Ready Room walls were closing in around you, drowning you in a sea paneled in beige and burgundy; left with nowhere to run, you drifted back to the alcove in a daze.

This wasn’t real.

It couldn’t be real.

Any second now Dr. Crusher was going appear, saying someone had found you in a Jeffries tube lost in a fugue state; or you would wake up in bed to find this had been nothing more than a nightmare and that you should never, ever have Klingon blood wine right before going to sleep again; or maybe you’d had the insane notion to try and rank up to lieutenant and were in the midst of spectacularly failing the final Holodeck exam…

You heard the peculiar ring of atmosphere being displaced, and next you sensed warmth at your back, but it was the weight of your crewmates you felt as Q’s hands came to rest on your shoulders.

“Well, my dear?” He sounded perfectly cheerful. “To the game or the fishpond?”

You stared bleakly at the replicator. It was possible this was nothing more than a lark. It was also possible everyone on the ship was about spend the rest of their lives in a Galaxy-class terrarium, all because you made the impulse decision to go skating on thin ice with hot skates with Q as your partner.

When you were finally able to speak again, your words left you in a thin, hollow whisper.

“What’s the point of all this?” you asked shakily.

Your eyes fell shut as Q slowly lowered his head to yours. He stayed silent, lips barely grazing your ear, waiting to see the shivers he knew he had sent down your spine, and when he felt you tremble against him he took a quiet breath and softly spoke.

“Only one way to find out…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The bits about the penalty box and tears being permitted are a reference to Tasha Yar from the episode ‘Hide and Q.’
> 
> I’m taking liberties with the timeline. It doesn’t align with DS9 or Lower Decks. And, to ensure I am giving credit where credit is due, I've appropriated the odd line or two from the show to make Q sound as in-character as possible. 
> 
> I’m on [tumblr](https://wrathkitty.tumblr.com). Drop by if you want to see snippets of future chapters!


	3. You Can Do It...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone who catches the DS9 reference gets a raktajino.
> 
> And, for any _Arrested Development_ fans out there: I had to. (Hint: It’s not the banana stand.)

_— You can do it._

Another voice eclipses the first.

It’s him, but he sounds…encouraging. Warm, even. Oh, that haughty undercurrent is still there (and will be for all of time), but the arrogance is tempered. He’s not infusing every other word with reminders of your inferiority.

Baffled, you open your eyes and are met with a broad chest and crimson command uniform. Q is no longer standing behind you but in front of you, but he instantly steps back when you angrily twist out of his grip. He keeps both hands half-aloft, giving you space, saying nothing as you look wildly around.

You stand in an empty arena flooded with brilliant, glimmering white light. The captain is gone, the ready room is gone, possibly the entire crew is gone, and it’s _all your fault._

Blind panic sets in.

 _Oh, God,_ you choke. Your vision blurs, and you press your hand over your mouth to stifle a sob. _It – it’s already over, isn’t it – I, I couldn’t get the replicator fixed and now everybody’s —_

Q swiftly shakes his head and takes a measured step forward, hands still half-raised.

 _It’s not over,_ he reassures you. _No one’s a frog yet._

You want to believe him, but he’s the reason you’re here – wherever, _whatever_ this place is.

He watches you cautiously for a few moments before taking another gradual step, and then another. A tear slowly drifts down your cheek as you let him come nearer, warily gauging his every move.

Q’s face, same as the rest of him, is a masque. There are times where he appears uncannily human, and others when the planes and angles of his features are too perfectly idiosyncratic to truly be real. Moments when the light hits his eyes at just the wrong angle and flattens the blue-grey of his irises instead of lending them depth, as though he had been so preoccupied with the placement of the cleft in his chin that he neglected the finer details. Mesmerizing to behold, but alien enough that your instincts warn you to stay on your guard.

Something about him now is decidedly _off,_ however. He appears identical, yet he is fundamentally different, and when the dots finally connect, you are stunned to find yourself disappointed.

 _You’re not him,_ you realize softly.

A knowing smile touches Q’s mouth.

 _I’m him,_ he says simply, lowering his hands. _I was, and I will be._ He shrugs. _Details._

His nonsensical answer brings a riddle to mind, taken from a story you have not read since childhood. The wordplay had always puzzled you to the point of frustration, so much that you never finished the book, but for the first time your analytical mind is able to slip between the absurdities of teacups and ravens and writing desks, and you are able to grasp the meaning and understand.

 _‘No wonder you’re late,’_ you murmur, _‘Why, this watch is exactly two days slow.’_

Q catches the reference, of course.

 _It’s an interesting parallel,_ he muses thoughtfully. His smile broadens into a smirk. _Although you don’t look much like an Alice._

You’re inclined to agree with him, but the semi-normal shift in conversation still isn’t enough to stop your mind from envisioning doomsday scenarios.

 _Am I dead?_ you ask shakily, fighting to remain composed.

He cocks an eyebrow.

 _Oh, come now, my dear,_ he scoffs, peering down his nose at you, _You’ve never been that slow on the uptake, there’s no need to start developing bad habits now._

 _This_ is the Q you know; snide, snarky, inventor of the backhanded compliment. You wipe your cheeks on the inside of your sleeve and scowl up at him, but your glower dissolves into puzzlement when the scornful set of his face gentles.

 _Ah, see? There’s my girl,_ he says, pleased. He is wearing that same smile again, a smile caught halfway between sincerity and temerity that hints of insider knowledge. Insights he’s gathered along the way, not by his omniscience but of times spent together that are inexplicably absent from your own reality.

He has learned that making you angry is a surefire way to stop your tears; that he can trigger your temper by implying you are somehow less than – an insinuation which is hilariously untrue; he exists in an eternity of predictability, but only you are ever able to surprise him…

Instantly, the splintered fragments of this contradiction align.

Of course he here. The universe itself could not hold him back if he knew you wanted him at your side, and the prospect of being alone in this place of incandescent shadows throws open the floodgates of fear. ~~~~

_Q –_ Your voice breaks again, but he but hears you, same as always. His eyes widen, and in a flash the distance between you is gone, and your hands are already fisted in his shirt when he reappears.

 _I’m scared,_ you blurt out.

He is gripping your shoulders again, but this time the weight is a ballast as he ducks down to bridge the difference in your heights and looks earnestly into your eyes.

 _Don’t be scared,_ he repeats. _You can do it._

 _You mean the part about everyone getting turned into frogs is a bluff?_ you ask unsteadily.

 _It’s not a bluff,_ he patiently explains, straightening, _But you’ve no reason to be frightened. We both know you’re more than up to this._

He seems amused by your self-doubt, and the chuckle in his voice ignites a spark of hope in your chest, lessening the need to clutch onto his shirt.

You keep hold of it anyway.

 _I’ll be able to get the replicator fixed,_ you breathe.

 _Well..._ Q hums noncommittally and tilts his head, prevaricating. _That’s not **exactly** what I said._

You squint up at him suspiciously.

_Do I get the replicator fixed or not?_

He makes a show of pretending to hesitate, then lets out a deep, deliberate sigh and looks down at you fondly.

 _Oh, I **suppose** I could give you one small hint,”_he says with exaggerated indulgence. He leans down and whispers, _No,_ in your ear.

Your jaw drops. Q snickers, then bursts into outright laughter when find your voice again and screech, _Why the hell are you telling me I don’t need to be scared if I’m not able to fix the replicator?!_

 _You could always try trusting me,_ he teases, not bothering to hide his delight at having successfully irritated you.

You fix him with a withering look. Still smiling, he gives your shoulders a quick squeeze and adds, _Well, then at the very least, **listen** to me for once and try to trust yourself._

 _I never listen to you,_ you fire back, _It’s one of the reasons you like me so much._

The mirth in Q’s face subtly deflates, and the emotions you see reflected in his eyes sends fear of a very different nature through your heart. You know every laugh line at the corners of his eyes and mouth, can name each silver strand that he added into his hair for his own amusement – and have no memory of when his face came to be as familiar to you as your own. 

_What’s going to happen?_ you whisper, unconsciously tightening your grip in the fabric of his uniform.

He responds with a crooked smile.

_Only one way to find out._

Your heart beats in sync with his for a final time. The fragments slip out of alignment once more as he watches you tip back through the looking glass, and then you are Alice again, making your way across all sixty-four squares of the chessboard, and debating whether to stay when the Mad Hatter invites you to tea.

* * *

“What will it be, Ensign? A permanent VIP seat on a lily pad, or preserving the crew’s status quo?”

You felt the weight of Q’s hands on your shoulders again, as if one version of him had just handed you back off to another, but the panic that had been threatening to paralyze you was gone. You were still afraid of the challenge he had set before you, but you were no longer afraid of _him_.

(What _was_ it with this goddamned ship and paradoxes?)

“Okay,” you decided out loud, “I’ll play.” Absently you were wondering why your face felt wet; you didn’t recall crying, but at least the quaver had left your voice. You sounded upbeat and a little resigned, same as when facing any other job.

(Half of the repair tickets that came your way would have been self-solving if your supervisor had taken you up on your offer to program the ship’s computer to ask _Have you tried turning it off and on again?_ whenever the LCARS interface locked up. On the other hand, empowering the crew to provide their own IT support would have meant fewer opportunities to make your own fun, such as mournfully explaining to Dr. Pulaski that she would not be able to reset Dr. Crusher’s voice authorization code without the use of a left-handed tricorder.)

“Excellent!” Q exclaimed, interrupting your train of thought.

He briskly spun you around by the shoulders and went to continue, but the words died on his lips.

All bravado fell away as he gazed down at you, mouth half-parted, eyes slowly tracing the tear tracks down your cheeks. You were too startled by the wonderment in his face to feel self-conscious. You were witnessing a phenomenon more profound than the birth of a star or traversing a supernova – an omniscient entity experiencing self-discovery for the very first time, and from that moment forward being forever robbed of the luxury of ignorance.

He unwittingly swept you into the tumult of his newfound confusion, and for a fraction of a heartbeat carried you with him as he frantically searched for an anchor, something to grasp as he fought to master that which he had never encountered: The unknown.

_You can do it._

Distantly, you felt his hands spasm on your shoulders. The flailing whirlwind in your mind slowed and settled into its usual quiet buzz. A haze that you did not remember falling over your vision cleared, briefly revealing the face of a little boy who had found himself rescued before even realizing that he was lost – had he ever been a child.

“What’s wrong?” you whispered.

Q flinched, then carefully, deliberately – as though a single misstep would leave him irrevocably laid bare before you – swallowed hard and spoke.

“You have the most guileless eyes of any creature I have ever encountered.”

The resonance in his voice had changed – he was awestruck.

Then his jaw snapped shut, and he dropped his hands to his sides and backed away, turning to the window.

You shared an uneasy look with Captain Picard. His skepticism was plain, whereas Q’s unexpected lapse into humanity had left you conflicted — giving Q the benefit of the doubt might as well put you in direct violation of Starfleet protocol.

The words _Are you alright?_ were on the verge of leaving your mouth when he suddenly spun back around on his heel, cocksure as ever.

“Your move,” he sneered.

Either his game face was back on, or he was suffering from a multiple personality disorder.

You weren’t sure which one you preferred.

Nervous, you looked back to Captain Picard.

“Just do your best, Ensign,” he said quietly, still at a loss as to what role he needed to play in this bizarre set of circumstances.

You managed a tight smile of acknowledgement in return. His reservations were obvious, but you couldn’t blame him for doubting you…even if he did seem to be forgetting that, unproven Ensign or none, you _had_ singlehandedly saved the _Enterprise_ from a wide scale tribble infestation only a few months earlier.

Convincing Worf that bat’leths traced their origins back to an ancient tribble fertility rite had been the lie of a lifetime. You had thrown in Kahless and Khaleesi and Gauron and Gollum and any other vaguely Klingon-ish name you could think of to make the story sound extra authentic, and, wow, sir, how does any warrior with honor not know this chapter in the Empire’s sacred histories; yes, you should tell Alexander about this immediately and please take your overgrown boomerang with you because if you stick around here one second longer, _legend has it_ that this pile of purring, fuzzy cockroaches will totally be stacked higher than my head.

You weren’t particularly exceptional at anything, but you had always had a talent for improvising. Save for one incident – no, don’t think about that – your ability to come up with something from nothing had gotten you out of a number of sticky situations, or at the very least enabled you to leave your mark. You had ‘died’ along with everyone else in the _Kobayashi Maru_ , but you were the only cadet in history whose response to being told phasers had just gone offline was instructing the computer to start playing funeral dirges. On bagpipes.

Why should a specter of frogs be any different?

“What are the rules?” you asked out loud, turning to Q. He had come to stand in the center of the room and was watching you with his usual vainglorious grin.

“The mark of any imaginative game is one in which the rules are made up along the way,” he boastfully replied, “And as I once told your redoubtable Commander Riker, I am anything if not imaginative; and do you have some sort of rash on your chest, Ensign?”

You froze.

Q gestured quizzically to your front, where you had been unconsciously rubbing your skin through the fabric of your uniform, right above your communicator.

Cheeks burning, you shoved both hands in your pockets and waspishly snapped, “Does that mean fidgeting is against the rules?”

“Well, that’s not a terribly imaginative rule, is it?”

A clatter came from the corner just then; a frog had launched itself from Captain Picard’s model _Enterprise_ , knocking the miniature ship from its pedestal and onto the floor, breaking off both nacelles in the process.

The Captain sighed and went to rise from his chair, but you beat him to it and were already gathering up the pieces before he had time to stand.

“I can fix this, sir,” you said, examining the jagged edges of the port nacelle. “It just needs epoxy.”

“If only you could replicate some,” Q sadly quipped, “Epoxy…tea…enjoying the luxury of opposable thumbs…all for the want of a horseshoe nail.”

“If only,” you echoed in a mutter as you set the nacelle back on top of the pedestal.

You went to pick up the still-intact saucer section but paused mid-reach, spying an antique teapot sitting out on a low shelf that you had not noticed before. The piece was heirloom, constructed of bone china and edged in gold.

You studied the scattering of dainty irises hand-painted on the front of the teapot, thinking.

“If I think of a picture of an object, can you make it corporeal?”

“Anything,” Q declared with a glint in his eye. “But I am the final arbiter whether you’re allowed to have it. And,” he added dryly as you stood back up, “if you’re planning on asking me for all the parts needed to build a new replicator, I’ll be very disappointed.”

“Okay,” you agreed noncommittally. You set the saucer section back on the pedestal and looked to Q, waiting.

“Close your eyes,” he instructed, “and envision the items in your head.”

You obediently did as he said, naming the items out loud as you made your requests one by one.

“A TR-580 tricorder – the one with the purple stripe,” you began, “A small copper sieve with a handle, a hypospray, eight ounces of Ceylon leaves…”

There was a faint creak from Captain Picard’s chair as he shifted in his seat.

“Remind me to fix that squeak for you before I go, sir,” you said unthinkingly, re-opening your eyes.

You had scarcely noted the Captain’s bland expression when a white burst of light filled your vision, followed by Q’s face.

“Distraction does not become you, Ensign,” he warned in a clipped voice. “I suggest you get back to work — and stop being overly optimistic.”

“Is being pessimistic one of the rules?” you asked, feigning surprise. “Because if I’m going to end up being turned into a frog, I don’t want a VIP seat on a lily pad, I want the whole pond.”

Q frowned. You smiled up at him sweetly and reclosed your eyes.

“A baseball,” you blithely continued, not giving him time to respond, “A bergamot orange – actually, no, just make it a small bottle of bergamot oil instead; we’ll be here all day otherwise. Oh, and two insulated buckets with lids. And one of the lids needs to be ventilated.” You paused and then followed up with a quick, “Please.”

“This is quite the grocery list. Are your minions ordinarily so bold, Jean-Luc?”

“This one is,” you interjected mildly, “which is probably why I’m still a minion.”

You heard him snicker, then snap his fingers.

“Alright, my little minion. Go forth and conquer; your supplies await.”

“Ensign Minion,” you corrected, drawing another chuckle from him.

You opened your eyes and saw everything you requested tidily arranged across the top of the desk. Q stood over your assortment of tools, both he and Captain Picard examining the lot with equal curiosity.

“Do we plan on making perfume, dabbling in voodoo, or channeling our inner Doctor Crusher?” Q mockingly inquired as you drew up alongside him and picked up the tricorder.

“We plan on trying little bit of everything,” you answered, then unceremoniously smashed the tricorder back down on the desk as hard as you could.

Captain Picard uttered a grunted curse and ducked as a small chunk of plastic whizzed past his ear; even Q seemed put out by your wanton act of destruction.

“Are you in the habit of breaking all your toys?” he tsked disapprovingly. He picked up the tin of Ceylon, unscrewed the top, took a quick whiff of the dried brown leaves inside, then set it aside with a shudder. “Or is this why we can’t have nice things?”

You were inspecting the seams along the tricorder chassis and ignored him. Satisfied, you picked up a bucket and tossed the tricorder into it along with the hypospray, sieve, and bergamot, remembering at the last minute to also grab the baseball and tin of Ceylon before moving to the couch to use as a workspace. 

“Does this have to be a spectator sport?” you asked, directing your question to the six-foot-plus shadow following close at your heels.

“It’s hardly my fault that you happen to be the most pleasant thing to look at in the room,” Q retorted. He stationed himself over your shoulder as you knelt down in front of the couch and set the bucket on the floor beside you. “Save for Jean-Luc’s fish, of course.”

You glanced up from where you had been prying apart the tricorder, deadpan.

“Is it too late to ask for mask of the Grand Nagus?”

His eyes narrowed but you could tell he was fighting a smile.

“Ensign, you seem to be forgetting I can turn you _into_ the Grand Nagus.”

“I’d rather have the pond.”

Q’s eyebrows shot up just short of his hairline.

You turned back to the tricorder and nimbly began cannibalizing the inner contents, setting aside all the components save for the power cell and every conductive wire you could find.

Time slowed as you set about methodically twisting wires together end-to-end to create a single length as long as your forearm. Once this was complete, you picked up the power cell, wound one end of the wire tightly around it, then snapped the cell back into its port, leaving the remaining seven or eight inches of wire untouched. After confirming the connection was secure, you crudely re-reassembled the tricorder, this time using only the components needed to produce a steady electrical current.

You loosely snapped the chassis back together next, leaving just enough space between the seams for the wire to poke through, then reached for the sieve. It was nothing of note, constructed of a small metal mesh basket the size of your fist, with a small hole drilled at the end of the handle so it could be hung on a hook. You grasped the loose end of the wire, threaded it through the hole and twisted it tight to keep it in place.

As soon as all three parts were connected, you lifted the contraption up, letting sieve dangle above the floor from where it hung from the exposed wire, and flicked the tricorder on with your thumb.

The device hummed and came back to life with a chirp, its power now routed directly through the wire and into the sieve, which heated and began to glow orange.

Hiding your smile, you switched the tricorder back off and waited for the sieve to cool. Once you were certain you could set it aside without causing a fire, you climbed back to your feet and grabbed the bucket.

Q promptly sidestepped in tandem when you went to walk around him, blocking your way.

“I’m getting water,” you explained honestly as he peered down at you with one eyebrow raised. “I need to get the stitching on the baseball wet.”

A moment later you were once again seated on the floor by the couch, with a full bucket of water in front of you. You blinked a few times, startled, then matter-of-factly picked the tricorder up and commenced stage two of your plan.

You submerged the sieve into the water, then folded the tricorder clamshell style over the lip of the bucket. After checking that everything was securely in place, you reached reached for the the vial of oil, tugged the cap off with your teeth, and set it by the still-open tin of Ceylon.

A trickle of sweat ran down the back of your neck as you picked up the hypospray and reactivated the tricorder, silently reminding yourself to proceed with caution; electrocution wasn’t on your list of ideal ways to shuffle off the mortal coil, but nonetheless ranked higher than your current prospects. Once again, the sieve began to glow, steadily heating the water to a low simmer, and small bubbles soon started to form.

Moving with utmost precision, you carefully touched the hypospray nozzle to the length of wire exposed above the water’s surface and took a deep breath.

Now was probably not the best time for a funeral dirge, bagpipes or otherwise.

“Computer, play ‘The Final Countdown’ by Europe.”

And as the opening riff of the 1986 smash hit began playing from overhead, you squeezed your eyes shut and pressed the trigger.

Electricity shot down the wire and surged into the sieve, superheating the mesh and setting the water to boiling within seconds. Working fast, you dropped the hypospray, switched the tricorder off and grabbed the tin, upending the mass of dried leaves into the bubbling water, followed by the oil of Bergamot.

_“It’s the final countdown/The final countdown…”_

Curls of steam wafted lazily into the air as the water turned a rich, deep amber, slowly filling the room with the spicy fragrance of Ceylon and notes of lavender and licorice.

Humming along to the song, you climbed to your feet, hauling the bucket up with you, and carefully placed it on the desk before Captain Picard.

“Thank you, Ensign,” he said with aplomb as he rose from his chair. “I can take it from here.”

You saw his smile and had a sinking feeling a promotion – and the dreaded high-collar uniform – was in your future.

Maybe it wasn’t too late to convince him the poster had been your brainchild and not Mariner’s…

Q looked on in stony silence as the Captain fetched a teacup and tidily dipped it into the bucket, then sat down once again to wait for the tea leaves to settle.

 _“Very_ amusing,” he announced sarcastically, “But you seem to be forgetting the matter of the replicator. Not to mention,” he shuddered and snapped his fingers, cutting the song off mid-verse, “Your taste in music is positively vile.”

“I guess you’ve never heard bagpipes.”

His eyes narrowed to slits.

Sighing, you wiped your damp hands on the back of your uniform and shook your head.

“You didn’t say I had to fix the replicator _and_ make sure Captain Picard had his tea,” you pointed out, taking care not to gloat. You motioned to the bucket and explained, “That’s Earl Grey tea. Black Ceylon tea leaves infused with bergamot oil.”

“It’s an excellent blend, Q,” the Captain pleasantly remarked, having taken his first few sips. He proffered a small smile over the rim of his teacup. “Would you care for some?”

“No more than you would care for me to refill your cup with pond scum, Picard,” Q said acidly.

You picked up the other bucket and the lid and left them to it; knew you had won by virtue of the fact he wasn’t lording it over you that you had lost.

“She’s met your terms, Q,” Captain Picard said as you crouched down and peered under the couch. Two frogs looked back at you, both out of reach.

This was going to take awhile.

“Either fix the replicator and leave, or just leave.”

“And what if I intend to do neither? You’ll quote Byron at me instead of the Bard?”

“Do you remember how many there were?” you interrupted.

“You mortals are always —” Q glanced down at you irritably. His face soured into a scowl, and you knew he no longer found you to be quite so charming. “How many what were?”

“How many frogs were – _wait, don’t move!”_ you cried, spotting the blue speckled frog clinging to the toe of his boot.

You lunged forward with both hands extended before he could react, but the little creature scampered onto the cuff of his pants just as you came within reach.

Crouched at Q’s feet, you awkwardly began chasing the frog up the length of his leg. You grabbed at his ankle, the frog escaped you again and leapt up to his hip; you scrambled onto your knees to keep it in reach, and then moved to stand as it took yet another flying leap until finally you managed to zig when it zagged and succeeded in pinning it between Q’s chest and your cupped hands.

“I did it!” you exclaimed. You beamed up at him, flushed and out of breath.

The frog gave an indignant croak.

Q met your smile with an acerbic frown, but you were too pleased with yourself to care.

“Sir, would you mind getting the other bucket?” you asked, glancing over your shoulder at Captain Picard. “And the lid? These things can jump higher than they look.”

The Captain was a little too late in wiping the grin off his face as he set down his cup.

“Certainly, Ensign.”

“Thank you, sir. Sorry for getting handsy,” you continued, turning back to Q. “I haven’t caught a frog in years. I didn’t think he’d be so wriggly...”

* * *

The frog is in fact a she, but Q remains silent, intently scrutinizing your face and form as your attention shifts away from him and back to the amphibian.

He is accustomed to invading others’ personal space, not the other way around, and you’ve not only completely turned the tables, you’re practically plastered against him. At least you had recently bathed; the scent clinging to your hair and skin was tolerable.

Lucky for you he liked florals.

He begins to debate his next steps.

He could shove you away, ideally into the nearest black hole.

(He had passed one only a few light years away when he had been seized with the notion to pay Picard’s intrepid little Ensign a visit.)

He could shrink you down to the size of an Belzoidian flea, drop you into Picard’s blasted cup of _tea, Earl Grey, hot,_ and sit back and wait to see if you sink or float.

(Although after the stunt you just pulled, he suspects you would probably enjoy the swim and then have the audacity to request a towel after.)

He could be cruel and dismember the frog right before your eyes and count every tear as it rolls down your cheek.

(The mere thought of such a scenario causes him to be overtaken by a bizarre compulsion to apologize, mend the frogs, and offer you a handkerchief and shoulder to cry on. Preferably his.)

He could skip ahead in the timeline to find out what he ends up deciding to do with you, as he is usually inclined.

(Or he could do the absurd and simply wait to see what happens.)

You are looking up at him again, and in your bright, fathomless eyes he sees intelligence, sincerity, and good-humored resignation. Hardly unique, but your willingness to play along hints at the possibility you are more than just a common garden variety mortal. Jean-Luc and the rest of his ilk have only ever tolerated him. You seem amused by him, curious, even. Now, anyway; your fear initially had been quite real, and he’s not quite certain what changed. Or whether he’s grateful for it.

He decides to wait.

* * *

“Do you remember how many frogs were replicated?” you asked Q.

He looked at you oddly before lifting a hand and snapping his fingers.

Little bursts of light appeared in random locations around the room, too quick for you to follow, and your heart sank as you felt the frog beneath your hands vanish along with its compatriots.

“Where did they go?” you demanded, taking a step back and glaring up at Q.

“Into nothingness,” he replied with a careless shrug.

“Put them back!”

“Ah, yes, your precious human morality strikes again,” he jeered, goading you. “You’re really quite adorable, Ensign. Or perhaps you secretly have aspirations of being a herpetologist instead of a lackey…?”

You went to snap back with a retort, but suddenly the enormity of what you had just accomplished hit you full freight, sapping you of all desire to fight and leaving you on the verge of tears. Going toe-to-toe with Q and living to tell the tale was no small achievement, but you didn’t have it in you to tempt fate a second time.

And if you had kept your mouth shut to begin with, there wouldn’t have been a first time. 

“Dismissed, Ensign,” Captain Picard said unexpectedly. His expression was kind. “Take the rest of the day.”

Stalwartly avoiding eye contact with Q, you mumbled a grateful thank you and made a beeline for the exit before you lost all composure.

“She just saved your crew, Picard,” you heard him scoff as you reached the door, “I’d say she deserves a little more than a pat on the head and the afternoon off.”

“If you’re about to offer suggestions, I’m not interested.”

You let the doors slide shut behind you without waiting to hear Q’s reply. You could only hope ‘promotion’ wasn’t on his list of ideas.

* * *

Picard took a final draught of tea – it really had been an excellent blend – then directed his attention to his unwanted guest, who had yet to make ready his departure and was taking liberties with the furniture again.

Q sat on the edge of the desk in contemplative silence, mulling over the baseball you had requested.

“She was throwing you off, Q,” Picard pointedly said, setting aside his cup.

“She did more than that, Jean-Luc,” he replied, idly studying Buck Bokai’s faded signature on the worn leather surface of the ball, “She surprised me. And I am _never_ surprised.”

Picard smiled thinly.

“I suppose there is a first time for everything.”

Q let out a humorless chuckle and shook his head, still examining the ball.

“Not when one has existed for as long as I.”

“Well, I hope the experience was not terribly traumatic.”

Q gave him a flat look, but behind his bored affect was the unmistakable expression of a man wrestling with his own…humanity. An expression Picard could recall having only seen on Q’s face once before, when he had indeed been human.

Having no desire to bear further witness to this moment of self-reflection, Picard swiveled in his chair and reach for his PADD.

“Q, delightful as this sojourn has been, if you don’t mind —”

“I neither mind nor do I care,” Q crisply interrupted. Some of the usual arrogance had returned to his voice. Without another word, he lobbed the ball to Picard and disappeared.

That had been far too easy.

“Computer, locate...Q.”

_“The entity known as Q is not on board.”_

Picard settled back in his chair, relieved. He knew better than to presume this would be the last time would darken the _Enterprise’s_ doorstep, but —

_“Correction. The entity known as Q is currently in turbolift zero-zero-one.”_

“…Damn.”

* * *

_“Turbolift shaft zero-zero-one, now offline.”_

You shut the panel and turned to rest your forehead against the wall, closing your eyes as soon as you felt the turbolift slow to a stop. Being tasked with reprogramming every override code on the ship's internal transportation network had finally paid off; you couldn’t bear the thought of having to face anyone, and it was a long ride from Deck One down to your quarters.

An increasingly familiar _whoosh_ sounded behind you.

“I can’t tell if you’re too clever for your own good or simply have no sense of self-preservation at all.”

“Honestly?” you said, speaking to the wall. “I can’t tell either. Let me know if you ever come to a conclusion. Can you do me a favor?”

“More baseballs? Or are you going to request the entire warp core?”

You turned around with a sigh and looked up into a pair of leery blue eyes.

“I hate spiders,” you told Q firmly, “I am _terrified_ by them. So, if this is going to be a regular thing,” you made a quick gesture between the two of you, “It can’t be spiders. Ever.”

He lifted an eyebrow and went to reply, then noticed you absently worrying the same spot on your chest. Frowning, he reached out and gently moved your hand down at your side as though plucking a piece of lint from your uniform.

“What makes you think yourself to be so interesting that I would _ever_ give you a second thought again?” he coolly inquired, re-clasping his hands behind his back.

“I’m not that interesting,” you agreed, “I just think I’m probably the most fun you’ve had in awhile.”

His face darkened.

Moving slowly – giving you plenty of time to duck out from under his arms and hurry away— he braced his palms flat against the wall on either side of your shoulders and leaned down, caging you in.

“Ensign, let me reassure you that your primate brain cannot even _begin_ to fathom what qualifies as ‘fun’ for a Q.”

“You didn’t say no,” you pointed out, unfazed.

“Likewise, my dear,” his voice sharpened, gaze lividly boring into yours, “I didn’t say _yes.”_

He vanished.

“You can’t just run away every time you don’t like how a conversation is going!”

Realizing you were scolding thin air, you let your head fall back against the wall and let out a long, exasperated sigh.

“Computer, deck thirty-two.”

_“Reactivate turbolift shaft zero-zero-one for general use?”_

“Negative.”

The turbolift had just resumed motion when a bucket unexpectedly appeared in your hand. A croak came from it a moment later.

You eagerly dropped down to your knees and looked inside, breaking into a smile when you saw the little blue frog solemnly looking back up at you.

“I’m naming him ‘R,’” you said to the ceiling, grinning. “Get it? Q, R…?”

You were a little disappointed to be met with silence. But when you finally dragged yourself through the door of your quarters a few minutes later, you were greeted by the sight of a built-in floor-to-ceiling terrarium that now occupied the corner opposite your bed.

A Post-It appeared on the glass as you drew nearer. Mystified, you curiously unstuck the yellow square of paper to read the note that had been written in large, blocky handwriting:

_She prefers crickets._

_P.S. Your replicator appears to be broken._

“Is Captain Picard’s replicator still broken, too?!” you demanded.

The writing erased itself, followed by a single word.

_Oops._

Scowling, you crumpled up the note and flicked to the floor, then grumpily stomped over to the contraband replicator Mariner had passed on to you before she left the _Enterprise._

“Q, I am _never_ talking to you again if it’s spiders,” you threatened, glaring back at the balled-up Post-it.

Nothing.

You reluctantly switched on the replicator and braced yourself for whatever the hell was about to appear.

“Crickets.”

_“Please state quantity and species.”_

“Uh, one? And, any kind from North America?” you asked uncertainly – then burst into laughter when a little red frog materialized before you…along with two little cups of tea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading this silliness! I'm having far too much fun with it. 
> 
> I would just like to say that I am such a stickler for accuracy that I spent a fair amount of time studying high-resolution images of John de Lancie’s face to figure out his eye color. Best I can tell, they appear to be blue with a little brown in the center, and I’m 99% sure I landed my ass on some kind of stalker list. THE THINGS I DO FOR MY CRAFT.
> 
> Also, I took artistic license with the Hatter’s appearances in _Through the Looking Glass_ and _Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland._
> 
> If you’re interested in sneak peeks of future chapters, check out my [tumblr](https://wrathkitty.tumblr.com).
> 
> Last: And that's why you ALWAYS LEAVE A NOTE.


	4. I Said No Spiders

You burst through the entrance of your quarters and rushed to the bathroom, barely making it over the threshold in time to throw up in the sink. Somehow you had managed to keep control of your stomach all the way from Engineering, plus an entire turbolift ride with Commander Data. Who, of anyone else on the ship, probably would have objected the least to you vomiting all over his front, but you did not want to be the first person to test that theory.

God, what a miserable way to start the weekend.

You ducked your head under the faucet to rinse out your mouth and then straightened to see Q eyeing you warily from where he had just appeared in the doorway.

“You look awful.”

At least he’d had the decency to wait to make this observation until after you stopped dry heaving.

“I said no spiders,” you croaked, trying to catch your breath.

He arched an eyebrow.

 _“This_ is because of the spiders?” He looked you up and down, taking in your clammy face and greenish cast of your skin. “They were little!” he exclaimed, exasperated. “And blue! Cute, even! You ought to be thanking me that it hadn’t been tarantulas.”

At the word ‘tarantulas,’ you spun on your heel and threw yourself into the shower without taking the time to undress, turning on the water as hot as it could go.

 _“What_ is the matter with you?”

Q’s voice followed you as he came to stand on the other side of the already fogged-up shower door.

“I know humans are prone to overreacting,” he complained, speaking over the sound of rushing water. “Your Captain included, I might add. Not that I’m one to gossip, but you should have seen the look on his face the time I borrowed a shuttlecraft and took him on an impromptu trip to nowhere; you’d have thought I suggested he and I spend all eternity together. But mortal frailties and other sundry weaknesses aside, you’re being a little ridiculous, don’t you think?”

He waited for you to reply, then knocked on the glass.

“Are you even listening?”

You weren’t. You were frantically tearing every stitch of clothing off your body and wishing you could climb out of your skin, too.

Q let out an aggrieved sigh.

“Surely you know me well enough to realize it was intended as nothing more than a joke…”

You began scrubbing yourself raw from head to toe, fighting back tears when the scent of the soap reached your nose; you loved Risan daisies but from this moment forward they would be forever associated with a phalanx of blue spiders skittering over your hands –

“LaForge seemed amused enough by them…”

(Actually, no, he had been very _not_ amused, even despite the spiders being little, blue, and technically cute. Insects spilling out from a pinhole in the master systems display would have driven any Chief Engineer to drink, even one as level-headed as Commander La Forge. Luckily Q had been selective about where and when he played his pranks over the past few months, not wanting anyone to piece together that the odd happenings taking place around the ship were his handiwork or in any way related to you. Fraternizing with one of the top five banes of Starfleet wasn’t exactly the best means of endearing you to your colleagues. Likewise, his being the reason for you having to deal with a hostile work environment wasn’t exactly the best means of endearing you to him, and despite all signs to the contrary, he had been trying to stay in your good graces – the operative word being _‘had.’)_

“You’re not afraid of crickets,” Q petulantly continued when you stepped out of the shower, dripping wet and wrapped in a towel.

You shoved past him without answering and made your way the closet. He trailed behind you, still grousing. 

“I simply don’t see why four more legs makes the difference between you being rational versus acting, well, like _this…”_ He put his back to you as you yanked a clean uniform down from the shelf and went to finish toweling off. “And that’s not even taking into account the fact that crickets have antennae…”

You clenched your teeth, trying to block out his voice.

“Which really brings it down to only two additional appendages as opposed to four. I know you’re perfectly capable of counting to at least ten, so why should spiders be fundamentally all that different than crickets?”

 _“This is why!”_ you shouted, fed up.

Q turned just in time to see you drop your towel drop a few inches, far enough to reveal the blotchy red keloid scar that ran from your left collarbone down to just above your heart.

His nose wrinkled.

“How can you stand that?” He stepped nearer to take a closer look, not seeing you cringe.

“I can’t,” you told him shakily. “Which is part of the problem.”

He was still peering the handprint-sized scar with all the curiosity of an etymologist examining a mutated bug.

“Haven’t you people found methods of fixing those sorts of,” he made a vague motion in the direction of your chest, “deformities?”

A fresh round of tears stung your eyes.

“This _is_ fixed,” you said with a bitter laugh. “Spider bites and phasers just don’t play together very well.”

Q’s eyes shot up to meet yours, interest piqued tenfold.

You readjusted your towel, tightly wrapping it around yourself as high as it could go and muttered, “It’s a long story and I really don’t want to go into it.”

His gaze sharpened. You began counting down the seconds until he launched into a rapid-fire interrogation, but instead he half-shrugged, then turned around again so you could finish changing.

You stepped out from the closet a few moments later and found him by the terrarium on the other side of the room, checking on R and U – who frankly had nicer living quarters than you did, but it was a point of pride that you had not taken Q up on his many offers to renovate (mainly because you weren’t sure which dimension your bed would be in from one day to the next).

“They seem to like the waterfall,” he remarked.

“They’re the most spoiled tree frogs in the Alpha Quadrant,” you told him crossly, “Of course they like it. _And_ the wishing well _and_ the lily pads _and_ the lazy river.”

He kept quiet, watching you out of the corner of his eye as you restlessly wandered the room. It was a rare attempt on his part to be tactful but minding his own business was having the opposite effect.

“Q, I can practically hear you begging me to tell me what happened, so just ask me and get it over with already,” you finally exploded.

“And here I thought I was doing the right thing by not indulging my own insatiable curiosity,” he retorted. “Next time I’ll spare both of us the trouble and just pluck the story out of your head.”

This was an empty threat. The first (and last) time he had ever delved into your thoughts sans permission had landed him in the proverbial penalty box and you a three-day stint in Sickbay.

You had spent the better part of a week ignoring him in retaliation for inviting himself into your brain, until he forced your hand and showed up on the Bridge while you were in the midst of replacing an LCARS display. From there he proceeded to pick a fight with Captain Picard (not-so-subtly glaring at you over Commander Riker’s shoulder the entire time), which quickly derailed into an actual argument that culminated in him finding reason to discard his human form and unleash the unfathomable scope of his true self. Everyone present had the good sense to look away; you, however, all but propped your eyes open with toothpicks in hopes of seeing something remarkable, then spent the next three days in a coma when the enormity of what you had seen sent your synapses into overdrive. Q grew so impatient for you to get better that he finally woke you up himself, then almost rendered you unconscious a second time when chose not to reveal himself and let Dr. Crusher take all the credit for your miraculous recovery.

You thawed somewhat, remembering the pair of antique Ray Ban aviators you had found in your quarters the afternoon you were released from Sickbay. A note had been attached – _For the next time you decide to not avert your eyes._

He had been concerned, even if neither of you were willing to admit it.

“It was back at the Academy, right before graduation,” you murmured.

Q walked over and sank down next to you where you had taken a seat on the foot of your bed.

“What happened?” he asked when you lapsed back into silence. His voice was quiet – curious, but without the mocking undertone.

You drew your legs up with a sigh and hugged your knees to your chest. Where to start?

“I got into a pissing match with another cadet,” you confessed. Your voice tightened, “Zoran LaConte. We were in Command School together.”

LaConte’s big, stupid face came into your mind’s eye, triggering the familiar surge of angry resentment that been festering in your gut for years, all the way back to a time when you wore red and not blue and had set your sights on forging your own path among the stars instead of aimlessly drifting between them.

Suddenly the story began tumbling out of you in a frenzied, uninhibited rush.

“He kept rigging the simulation sequence on the phaser range to make sure he ranked first,” you said heatedly, “even though everyone knew he couldn’t shoot his way out of a paper bag – plus I had held the top spot all four years we were there!”

You sprang to your feet and started to pace, continuing.

“But LaConte’s dad was an admiral, and because Starfleet promotes the Prime Directive almost as much as they promote family members, no one said _anything_ about him rigging the phaser sim – or any of the other times he cheated. I was _sick_ of him always getting special treatment,” you spat, “so I reset the sim the night before the exam. And then I broke out the champagne as we all watched him fall flat on his face in front of his father the next day.”

“Figuratively?” Q dryly inquired. “Or…” He smirked and lifted a brow, “Literally?”

“Literally,” you said with a snort. You sat back down on the bed beside him, adding, “I splurged for a bottle of the good stuff, too. It was French, _Soie_ _d'araignée_ – Spider’s Silk.”

“And I’m assuming Zoran LaConte was less than thrilled over your public reveal.”

“Imagine two Ferengi fighting over the last bar of latinum in the entire universe, except on meth,” you flatly replied. “And then crank it up to an eleven.”

“Someday we’re going to have to have a long discussion on how you came to know so much about 20th century pop-culture,” Q muttered.

“LaConte was mad,” you continued, only half-hearing his offhand remark. “Beyond mad. Mad enough that he spiked my raktajino a couple of days later, then broke into my quarters while I was still stoned out of my mind. He…”

A fresh wave of nausea swept over you, but you forced yourself to keep talking. You had made the choice to stab yourself in the gut; might as well twist the knife and do the job properly.

“He set a Wolf Spider on my chest,” you said falteringly, “Left a live phaser in my hand and then kicked back in a chair to watch the show. I woke up when it bit me, but what I saw wasn’t a spider, it was…”

You could hardly bear to remember let alone articulate what happened. Keeping your eyes glued on the soft glow of the terrarium light, you held out your hand to Q and tacitly gave him free reign.

The warmth of his fingers against your icy skin barely registered as he re-lived the memory through your eyes, and saw a massive, eight-legged monster climbing out of the gaping hole that it had carved into your ribcage and heard the _click-click-click_ of its bloodied mandibles as it noisily consumed you from within.

Q’s hand tightened around yours but you pulled away, huddling back up beside him with your chin on your knees. You refused to let him see what came next: A blinding flash of orange light, screams, and the smell of scorched flesh.

After a few failed attempts you found your voice again.

“There was an investigation afterwards. A bunch of things had gone wrong all at once, mainly because LaConte was the worst kind of idiot – a _stupid_ idiot. Whatever he drugged me with was homegrown, but he botched it up and it made me hallucinate instead of just falling asleep. He had set the phaser to stun, but what I saw scared me so much that the minute I realized I was holding a weapon, I set it to dematerialize and fired. And if it hadn’t been for him being such a goddamn a hero and knocking the phaser out of my hand – _that he put there_ – I would’ve dematerialized myself, too.”

Bile rose in your throat, making you shudder, but you choked it down and pressed on, “I spent every day after that scared to go outside and scared to fall asleep because I never knew for sure that a spider wasn’t hiding somewhere close by. I kept it together long enough to make it to graduation and then took the first starship assignment I could get. I haven’t been planet side since. Anywhere.”

“You mean to tell me you’ve _never_ stepped foot off a starship in all this time?” Q exclaimed, incredulous.

“Yeah,” you answered dully, staring into space. “Or starbase or shuttlecraft, so long as it’s going ship-to-ship.”

You could almost hear the horrified expression as it came over his face. Of course _this_ would be the one thing that shocked him, but you couldn’t even muster yet energy to be annoyed.

Resting your cheek on your knees to look at him, you wearily explained, “Every access and egress on Starfleet vessels has a built-in environmental barrier that repels insects . So long as I’m behind it, I know I’m safe. That’s why I’ve never made it to lieutenant. I altered the stats on my personnel file to make sure I’m not away team eligible, and you have to be eligible if you want to rank up. Anyway…” You sighed, propping your chin back on your knees, “that’s why I had said no spiders.”

Anticlimactic silence fell. Save for Starfleet’s head of psychiatry and Dr. Crusher, you never had the inclination or opportunity to confide your story to anyone, and weren’t sure what had inspired this sudden case of honesty. Q was bound to have some comment, but he took so long in replying that you were starting to doze off by the time he finally spoke.

“You seem to forget that you never told me any of this,” he irritably told you.

“What does that have anything to do with it?” you exclaimed, lifting your head in confusion. You knew better that to expect an actual apology, but his tone was almost…scolding.

He rolled his eyes, folding his arms across his chest with a condescending huff.

“Oh, please,” he sneered. “How was I supposed to know your fear of spiders wasn’t gross exaggeration on your part?”

Your eyes narrowed. Was he really trying to rationalize _and_ justify his being a complete ass?

“You’re supposed to know everything.”

“Well, you can hardly expect me to know all the answers unless I have reason to ask the right questions first,” he insisted, now sounding a little defensive.

This was the biggest non-denial denial in the history of ever.

“And you never thought to ask your on-board omnipedia why I was scared of spiders?” you hotly demanded.

“Of course not.” He was the veritable portrait of detached disinterest as he looked back at you, all but curling his lip in abject scorn. “What does it matter to to me?”

“Because it matters to _me.”_

He shrugged.

You gaped at him, genuinely at a loss. This had to be another ill-timed joke; he was all things arrogant and obnoxious and obtuse, but he had never set out to intentionally hurt you. But then your face fell as the irony of your reasoning sank in and cut deep: You couldn’t expect a being who had spent eons thinking only of himself to grasp the concept of empathy any more than he could expect you to squeeze roses from a targ.

“Never mind,” you said tonelessly. “It shouldn’t matter.” You scrubbed a hand down your face, trying to regain some semblance of…something. You had exhausted all your emotional reserves and the only thing that made sense right now was that nothing should make sense. “I keep forgetting that this isn’t a normal friendship. I need to go.”

“Your shift ended ten minutes ago,” Q said, suddenly looking uncertain.

“I’m going to Sickbay,” you told him absently as you stood up. “Can you make me another communicator? Mine’s waterlogged.”

“But you said you weren’t sick –”

“Doctor Crusher has a sedative that will stop me from throwing up in my sleep if I have a nightmare,” you interrupted.

When he didn’t reply, you glanced over and saw him staring back at you with his mouth half-parted.

“That’s…happened before?” he asked, struggling to conceal his shock.

Your vision blurred over with tears.

“I wasn’t exaggerating about being afraid of spiders, Q,” you said softly. “I don’t have flashbacks very often, but when I do, they’re bad. And humans tend not to do so well when we aspirate on our own vomit.”

Something that might have been a flinch crossed his face, and then a communicator flashed into existence on your shirt.

Wiping your eyes, you murmured a thank you and went to leave, but Q refused to be dismissed. He vanished, saying your name, and reappeared beside you just as the door slid open.

“What do those in a normal friendship do if one were to upset the other?” he asked awkwardly, catching hold of your hand.

His face was pinched and the hapless look he wore tugged at your heart, but all you wanted was to go back an hour in time, to when your favorite person still had yet to make you cry.

“Go ask your omnipedia,” you numbly replied, then eased your hand from his and walked out the door.

He did one better. He asked Data.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies to those of you who follow me on tumblr and may have already been subjected to this rant...
> 
> IDK if Wolf Spiders are all that poisonous, but I hate spiders and sure AF was not about to google that shit to confirm. True story: The first night in our new house, my husband and I found a Huge. Ass. Spider. in the garage. I proposed we burn the entire place down on the spot and went to fetch the lighter, but my husband, being equally terrified of spiders but far more practical minded than me, pointed out that arson probably wasn’t our best first line of defense (wrong), not to mention would not be covered by homeowners insurance (fair point, but SPIDER). Instead, he came up with the bright idea to try and scoot the spider outside using a rake (also wrong), then a snow shovel when the rake didn’t work (what makes his dumbass rationale all the more absurd is that this is a man who has literally schooled the IRS on their own tax code and gotten them to admit it in writing). In the midst of him trying to coax the spider onto very long garden tools, Demon Charlotte decided it wasn’t having it and in .0001 seconds scrabbled from the floor to halfway up the wall, at which point I grabbed the most poisonous thing I could get my hands on – bathroom cleaner – and Lysol’d that eight legged bastard back down to the floor. Which left it lemon fresh but not dead. Our neighbor dropped by in the midst of this to introduce himself, unhelpfully identified the spider as A WOLF (!) SPIDER after we explained why we had been screaming, then helpfully killed the spider for us by stomping on it, and probably went home to tell his wife about the weird new people who had just moved in up the street. (Insert comment here about glass houses and throwing stones, because we came to find out the level of cray going on in their house made my husband’s method of spider disposal seem more logical than motherfucking Spock himself. Let’s just say they’re no longer married, and for a suburban housewife mom of four, this woman’s Instagram is EPIC. As in she has traded up her Uggs and Vitamix for corsets and a staggering amount of Botox.) Anyway, we left the spider’s squashed remains untouched so as to serve an example to any of its friends, then went to go run an errand. By the time we got back, the spider had vanished and to this day we still have no idea where it ended up, but now we keep commercial grade insect killer in stock at all times. 
> 
> Thank you for reading! Your comments have been an an absolute treat and are the bright spots in my day. 
> 
> Check out my [tumblr](https://wrathkitty.tumblr.com) if you want sneak peeks at future chapters. (Also, shout out to mayhemmachine for helping me finalize that one line with the Ferengis.)


	5. I Made You a Present

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Screw you, DST!
> 
> I had a field day borrowing Q quotes from various TNG episodes. (There is also one Discord quote in this chapter. Happy hunting!)
> 
> *note- something weird is going on with the spacing. Will have to fix it later.

You rolled over and saw Q lying next to you, wearing a garish pair of green-and-blue striped pajamas and matching sleep cap. 

“I’ve figured it out,” he informed you solemnly. “How to make amends in a normal friendship. Oh, and I apologize.” 

He sounded perfectly sincere, but you buried your head face-down in your pillow and tried to will yourself back to sleep. 

“I’ve got to be up in three hours,” you complained, voice muffled. “Can’t this wait?” 

“I set the clocks back to make up for the difference. You can sleep as long as you’d like.” 

You turned to squint at him, face still half-smushed into the pillow. 

“Do you mean you set the clocks back on the ship, or the entire timeline?” 

Q lifted a brow. 

You pulled the covers over your head. 

“Well, _I_ can’t credit for the idea,” he pointed out. He propped himself up on an elbow to peer down at you and added, “Wasn’t it your ancestors who invented the concept? What was is called? Something erroneously plural…ah, yes, Daylight Saving – 

“Time,” you finished, speaking into the bedclothes, “and it was abolished in 2027 after it was declared a crime against humanity. You didn’t answer my question.” 

“I have something I wanted to show you, and I didn’t want to have to wait until you woke up,” he shrugged. 

You shoved back the blankets and glared at him. 

“You set back an _entire timeline_ because you couldn’t wait a couple of hours until I woke up?” 

“Yes,” he said, exasperated, “and is there an echo in here, or should I bring you in to dear Doctor Bev to have your hearing checked?” 

“I think my hearing would be the least of Dr. Crusher’s concerns if I showed up in Sickbay with you as my escort,” you muttered. “And I’m not continuing this conversation until you change your clothes. You look like some demented version of Bert from _Sesame Street.”_

Q obligingly swapped out the PJs for his usual Captain’s uniform. 

“Better?” 

“No.” You sat up and shoved your hair out of your eyes, feeling a little more alert. “Computer, what time is it?” 

_"It is indefinitely oh-three-hundred hours.”_

“Goddamn it, Q!” 

He almost managed to dodge the pillow you threw at him and came up snickering, dark hair standing even more askew than usual. 

“I really have missed you, you know,” he commented, goading you on. 

Outraged, you made a wild grab for the PADD that was out on the nightstand, but Q snapped his fingers, transforming it – along with every other blunt object within reach – into balloons that slowly floated up to the ceiling. 

He met your glare with his most infuriating smile. 

“The sooner you get up, the sooner the timeline is restored, and you can return to your much needed beauty sleep,” his reasonable voice grated like nails on chalkboard, “Speaking of, the circles under your eyes are simply a marvel; what is your secret, dear?” 

"I am five seconds away from strangling you,” you told him flatly. 

“Your little hands around the trachea I didn’t bother to include when I fabricated this body?“ He lifted his chin, exposing his neck in invitation. “Have at it.” 

“Four.” 

“You really are the most impossible person to buy a gift for.” 

“Three — wait, what?” 

He beamed at you and snapped his fingers a second time. 

The overhead lights brightened as a medium sized box appeared in your lap, wrapped in shiny black paper and tied with an ornate glittering black bow. 

“You got me a present?” you asked, confused. 

Q was practically preening. 

“Even better,” he said, “I _made_ you a present.” 

You looked down at it with all the enthusiasm of someone who had been handed a three-week dead lark. 

When had you both progressed to gift giving? 

Did this mean you were obligated to get him something? 

(Did you _want_ to be obligated?) 

Well…no, you wouldn’t mind being obligated. But on what occasion would you ever have reason to give Q a gift? First Contact Day? His birthday? 

Did he even have a birthday? How did one mark ‘eternity’ down as a date on the calendar? 

“Well, come on,” Q said impatiently when you make no move to touch the box. “It’s not going to bite. Go on, open it.” 

You let out a sigh and gamely reached for the bow. 

The lid opened of its own accord as soon as you finished tearing the last of wrapping paper away, revealing a black crystal pyramid nestled inside. 

It was about the size of softball, smoky in color, each of its four sides perfectly cut and polished to a high gleam. A material that resembled magnet fillings clung to the interior surface and formed intricate whorls that scattered apart with the slightest movement. 

Mystified, you carefully lifted the crystal out and gave it a quick shake to watch the patterns shift. 

“What do you think?” 

“I love it!” you exclaimed in genuine delight. “I love antiques; you know that.” 

Q smiled, pleased. 

“I’ve never had a paperweight before,” you remarked as you turned the crystal over and examined the base. “Is this from one of those novelty stores that were around in the 1990s?” 

“Pfft,” he shook his head, chuckling. “Always so adorably short sighted.” 

He swept forward to sit nearer to you on the bed, doing his usual trick of crowding into your space a little too closely to be accidental – leaning back on one arm half-behind you, reaching around with his other hand to take the pyramid from you with a flourish. 

“This,” he said, holding the crystal up to the light in front of your eyes, “holds every single spider in the Alpha Quadrant. I even included the cobwebs!” He gave you a sidelong glance, eager to see your reaction. “And if for whatever reason you decide you’d like to mingle with the locals in the Beta Quadrant, I’ll throw them in as well. The spiders, I mean,” he added judiciously, placing the crystal back into your limp hands. “I’m assuming you prefer the locals to remain, er, local.” 

Maybe he wasn’t wrong about needing your hearing checked. 

**_“WHAT?”_ **

He surveyed your face and then frowned. 

“You don’t like it.” 

_“That’s not the point!”_ you shrieked, horrified. You shoved the crystal at him. “Put them back! Right now!” 

“But they’re completely contained,” he told you earnestly, “and I took provisions to ensure there was no disruption to their respective food chains or ecosystems. It’s as if they never existed.” 

You gaped at him, slack jawed. 

Q sighed in frustration and took the crystal back in hand. 

“Don’t you see?” He was starting to sound a little affronted, “You can go home again. _Anywhere_ again. And I’ll take you there, wherever you’d like.” 

You continued to blink at him owlishly, still failing to understand the logic in giving you the gift of semi-mass extinction. 

Then the enormity of his rationale hit you, hard. 

_You can go home again._

You had told Q your biggest fear, and he had remedied it in the most Q-like way possible. You really shouldn’t have even been surprised. 

But still. 

“Listen,” you said hastily, “This is the, uh, sweetest thing anyone’s ever done for me, but –” 

“If you think I have any intention of limiting myself to cliché tokens of _friendship,_ ” he sneered as he moved away and angrily rose to his feet, “then you’re as delusional as everyone else in your species.” 

It had been a while since he’d thrown words around like ‘species’ and ‘delusional,’ and you realized you may have actually hurt his feelings, but there was no time to dwell on such an impossibility – right now you need to salvage whatever clusterfuck this attempt at a truce was devolving into. 

“Q, wait!” 

You grabbed his hand, hauling him back down on the bed beside you. 

“If you think you can appeal to my better nature, _Ensign_ \--” 

He froze as you clambered onto him to straddle his lap and fisted the front of his shirt in both your hands, then looked into his eyes and breathed, “Can you bring back the spider that bit me?” 

* * *

Aside from a few unnecessary accoutrements (Tonsils? Really?), he had designed this form to be fully functional. 

He is now regretting his meticulous attention to detail. 

Immensely. 

Your unexpected nearness is unnerving. You are warm and soft and his hands are touching the bare skin of your waist, having slipped beneath your shirt when he instinctively reached out to steady you after you had done the absurd and flung yourself at him. 

“Hey! Are you even listening?” 

How can he possibly be listening? Had his body actually required oxygen, he would be gulping for air. 

A few square inches of skin-to-skin contact has left him pie-eyed, the heart he had idiotically fabricated for himself is beating so hard in his chest that he feels every rush of blood as it pounds through his skull, and you are wearing a smile, _that_ smile, the one you seemed to reserve only for him and he didn’t realize he missed until it had faded three weeks prior. 

He surreptitiously tries to shift you further away on his knees, but somehow only ends up bringing you closer. Luckily you are too absorbed in your scheming to notice his current state. 

“Earth to Q! Can you bring him back?” 

“F-From the dead, you mean?” he asks stupidly, struggling to stay aloof. 

“Of course from the dead, it’s been dead for years,” you impatiently say. “Can you bring it back?” 

The intimation his abilities are in doubt is sufficiently insulting that he is able to regain a bit of composure. 

“Need you even ask the question?” he asks crossly. 

Your features darken into the wickedest expression he has ever seen on your face, and he is lost all over again. 

* * *

“Need you even ask the question?” Q inquired, sounding annoyed. 

You tightened your grip on his shirt and leaned in close. 

“I want you to find LaConte,” you told him fiercely, “And I want you to be there when he wakes up. And I want you to put the spider on his chest,” you leaned further in, eyes starting to blaze, “and make sure it is in a very, very bad mood when he wakes up and bites him. Repeatedly.” 

The glazed-over look that had been on Q’s face moments earlier had returned in full force. 

“I love it when you talk dirty,” he sniggered. 

His hands tightened at your waist, but you didn't budge from your spot; you needed his full attention for what you were about to say next. 

“And then I want you to give him the antitoxin,” you sternly continued. “And you can skip the phaser.” 

The corners of Q’s mouth turned down in disapproval. 

“You really know how to kill the mood.” 

“I’m bitter, not a sadist,” you retorted as you climbed off his lap. 

“True,” he ruefully agreed, reaching over to pick up the pyramid as you went to sit in the center of the bed. He neatly lobbed the crystal into the air and caught it in his other hand. “Which is precisely why I took the liberty of exacting your revenge for you.” 

A tricorder-shaped balloon drifted by, momentarily distracting you. 

“What do you mean?” you asked absently, batting it away. 

He took a quick peek into the pyramid and smirked to himself. 

“I downgraded his real estate portfolio.” 

A sinking feeling began to take up residence deep in your gut. You knew that smile. 

"The next words out of your mouth had better not be you put LaConte inside of that thing,” you warned. 

“Those were not going to be the next words out of my mouth,” he drawled, still peering inside the crystal. 

You felt your stomach drop straight to the floor. 

“Put him back, Q! Right now!” you shouted. You rose onto your knees, hands clenched at your sides, “He’s a jerk, but he doesn’t deserve –” 

His eyes shot towards yours, black, flat, and more alien than you had ever seen. 

“Deserve?” he echoed with a short laugh. 

You blood ran cold. 

There was the sensation of being dissolved into nothingness, and then you were on the bed with the wind knocked out of you and Q propped above you on his hands. 

He examined you dispassionately for a few moments, waiting until he saw you could breathe again before starting to speak. 

“I suggest you change your attitude,” he softly advised, annunciating every word in a clipped, icy tone. “It took _extraordinary_ restraint on my part not to smite LaConte out of the known universe after hearing your story, and it is only out of deference to you that I opted for a different approach – nothing bizarre. Nothing grotesque.” 

“Q,” you choked out, “What are you – ” 

“I’m not done,” he barked. 

You clamped your mouth shut. 

He resumed his speech, eyes knifing into yours. 

“I always keep my arrangements, madam,” he continued, once again speaking at a normal volume. “And so allowing that cretin to live out the rest of his natural life is a divine act of mercy as far as I’m concerned. Make no mistake, my dear...” 

Tears welled up in your eyes. Q spotted them immediately, and a knowing smile touched his mouth. 

Leering, he began to lower himself towards you, slowly imprisoning you inch by inch. 

“I regret the spiders very, very much,” he told you softly as he drew closer. “And I’m very, very sorry,” a mocking pout came into his voice, “I’ve learned my lesson, and I promise to try and behave,” he leaned in nearer still, “But rest assured…” 

His lips hovered a hairsbreadth away from yours, and his voice dropped to an unfeeling, sibilant whisper. 

“…There is _nothing_ you can do or say that will make me _ever_ regret force feeding that pathetic excuse of a life form his just deserts.” 

You shrank away from him as far as the mattress would permit, shaking. 

It wasn’t Q you were afraid of; you had seen enough of his warmth to know the malice was fleeing. The premonition you saw in his eyes – the very same that looked back at you every day in the mirror, despite his vow not to peek into your futures — was what had you cowering into the blankets. 

Eventually reality was going to catch up and rip off the blindfold you had willingly tied on. You would be forced to reconcile the man you knew with the entity whose dossier you spent a week decrypting but had yet to read; who had toyed with the _Enterprise_ for his own amusement, never revealing how many cards he held up his sleeve and if he’d stacked the deck or merely rigged the table. 

Q might have softened around the edges, but he was still exponentially more lethal than a wolf who got a kick out of wearing sheep’s clothing. Every passing day increased the risk of him starting a list of people he perceived to have slighted you, and only you stood between him and putting pen to paper. Disaster was on the horizon; it was simply a matter of when. 

But for now, you were going to keeping holding on tight to your blindfold. 

“Okay,” you rasped, not knowing what else to say. 

The malevolence in Q’s eyes started to abate, restoring a hint of their depth. 

“You cry so easily,” he quietly observed, noticing your tearstained cheeks. “Why?” 

“I always have,” you admitted. “It’s why I’m so terrible at poker,” you added, “But if you ever need a _Dom-jot_ partner, I’m your girl.” 

“If I truly cared about you, I would erase every memory of me from your brain,” he reflected musingly, ignoring your weak attempt to joke. “Make me no more significant to you than any other letter of your ridiculous alphabet.” 

“Then you better not start caring about me,” you stoutly informed him. 

His face softened. 

“Well...” He shrugged, mouth tilting up in a faint smile. “All right.” 

Reassured, you expectantly waited for him to move. His weight against you wasn’t uncomfortable, but your mind was quickly drifting into territories you preferred to avoid. 

Q’s tendency to invade your space was an old habit by now. He used physical proximity to intimidate his targets and wasn’t exactly subtle about it, having tipped his hand within moments of first meeting you. You refused to be rattled, and from that point on it had become a game of his – appearing out of nowhere while you were on duty, invisible to everyone but you as he leaned over your shoulder almost cheek-to-cheek; or your personal favorite, materializing while you were in the shower, casually offering you the soap, and you wiping the grin off his face by telling him you actually needed the shampoo and could he also fetch your towel while he was at it. 

You had lived constantly on guard for years. Keeping an eye out for a long, lanky nuisance was leagues away from spiders. But this was the first time Q had you pinned beneath him on a bed and was near enough that you could feel the rhythm of his heart against your own. 

So why wouldn’t he _move?_

Foolish notions started racing through your mind, coaxing out what-ifs and maybes and whether the two of you could exist in this pocket outside of time for a little while, and how it might feel to lie curled up together, his arm draped across you, resting his head on your shoulder to let you idly play with his hair as he regaled you with stories of his countless misadventures throughout the universe. 

Warm, heady silence fell. Q continued to hover above you, watching, waiting to see if he could successfully lure you one step closer to the precipice. 

But you weren’t the only one skirting too close to the edge. The flush in his cheeks betrayed him, bringing you back to the day in the Ready Room, when you unwittingly became the lodestone of a being who had spent his existence shunning every port in the storm. 

_You have the most guileless eyes of any creature I have ever encountered._

He had you spellbound, but you could just as easily charm the snake. The question was what would be left of you after. 

You swallowed hard and took a slow, deep breath. 

“Q?” 

“Yes?” 

“Put him back.” 

He blinked down at you, frowning. 

“Put who back?” 

“LaConte.” 

He pulled a face, and the bubble of unreality encompassing the room finally started to lift, just as you had intended. 

“Oh, very _well…”_

Annoyed, he shifted his weight onto one elbow to snap his fingers. The pyramid disappeared, and he gave you a miffed look. 

“Happy now?” 

“Spiders, too?” 

Q rolled his eyes and went to move off you. 

“Yes, you silly creature,” he replied as you sat up. He returned to the edge of the bed and continued, “Arachnids once more roam the quadrant, LaConte is no longer trapped in a web – don't look at me like that; you can file a complaint with management later – and your eight-legged friend will be waiting to give him a great big kiss first thing in the morning. I’ll even take you home to see the wake-up call in person. I have no doubt it will be _quite_ the show.” 

An empty red-and-white striped paper container appeared in his hand; he jokingly glanced into it and exclaimed, “I’m going to need more popcorn.” 

Watching Q tick off your demands had left you grinning like a Cheshire cat, but the smile dropped from your face the moment he said _Take you home._

“I’ll be _right there,”_ he exasperatedly reminded you, seeing your panic. The popcorn box disappeared. “You don’t trust me to keep you safe?” 

You shook your head. 

Q instantly started to protest but then his voice trailed off. Startled, he sobered and drew slightly back, gaze turning inward as he began to wrestle with this unexpected roadblock – a second pyramid, one that you had placed in his hands and housed an altogether different variety of phantom. 

“No,” he slowly realized out loud. His eyes flickered back to you. “I’ve given you no reason to trust me, have I?” 

His tone rendered the question a statement of fact. 

Silver light filled your vision before you could reply, and then you were on his lap again, his hands at your waist without any pretense, same as before. 

“Can I go back to bed?” you wearily complained. 

“One question,” he promised. “And then I’ll go. It’s not a _hard_ question,” he added wheedlingly when your shoulders slumped. “Just a simple yes or no.” 

“Fine.” You plucked the badge from his chest and began to toy with it, trying to ignore the urge to worry at your scar. “Make it quick.” 

“Will you trust me again?” 

Of course he’d go in for the kill instead of starting with an opening volley. 

“Sure, if you let me shove this communicator down your non-existent trachea,” you muttered. 

There was a brief silence, as if he were giving your threat serious consideration. 

_“Can_ you trust me again?” 

You gave the badge a sullen poke. You already knew your answer, but a cadre of blue spiders lurking at the back of your mind was holding you back from taking the leap. 

“Don’t be so hard on me, my dear,” he chided mildly when you didn’t reply. He ducked his head to try and catch your eye, “You’ve been mortal all your life. You know all about guilt. This is only my second time round with the phenomenon.” 

“You mean what happened with Commander Data?” you shrewdly inquired, still not glancing up from the communicator. 

Q stiffened. 

For someone who loved to bestow his insights on any topic at every available opportunity, he had been strangely taciturn the afternoon you were telling him about a shipment that had recently arrived from the Calamarain. He kept muttering about 'cosmic dust bunnies,’ ‘Data,’ and 'banishment,’ then refused to say more until you had finally pestered the whole story out of him. 

“Yes,” he curtly admitted, hard-faced. He took the communicator from you a little too quickly and readjusted it on his chest. “Now stop changing the subject. Can you trust me again?” 

You went to snatch the badge back just for spite, but he caught hold of your hand and swiftly interlaced your fingers together. 

“I give you my personal guarantee,” he insisted, doubling down. “No tricks this time.” 

“What about next time?” you shot back. 

Sure enough, the solemn conviction in his face melted into a brazen smirk. 

“Well…It _is_ me.” 

“If you’re going to be an assclown, then go do it on your own timeline,” you snapped, twisting your hand from his in disgust. 

He blanched. 

“Wait!” he hastily implored as you started to pull away. “Let me fix it!” 

You were already half out of his lap with one foot on the ground, but the unfamiliar note of pleading in his voice made you hesitate. 

“I can fix the spiders,” he told you plaintively. “Trust me — one more time, just for now. And...” He faltered, searching for words that had a prayer of undoing his arrogance, but came up short. Finally he shook his head and awkwardly finished, “And then perhaps you can build on that.” 

You studied him warily, torn between exercising your better judgement, or investigating this new hairline fracture in his assured air of confidence. 

A friendship with Q was the textbook definition of courting chaos. You knew better. 

But damn it all, you had missed him. 

He perked up, sensing that you might be on the verge of coming around. 

“Am I forgiven?” he asked hopefully. 

He was making it hard to hold a firm line; you had seen puppies less eager to please. 

“I haven’t decided yet.” 

His eyes started to twinkle. 

“You didn’t say no,” he pointed out, cautiously reaching for your hand. 

“Likewise, my dear,” you retorted, throwing his words back to him from that day in the turbolift, “I didn’t say ‘yes,’ either.” 

Q began to smile. 

“Still not a no.” 

You stubbornly maintained your haughty frown of righteous indignation as he slipped his hand around yours, and permitted him to draw you back down to his lap. 

“I’m giving you a _Get Out of Jail Free Card_ tonight,” you warned once you were seated again, “but after this, you’re on probation.” 

“I’d expect nothing less,” he jovially declared, beaming. “And probation is one step closer to absolution. See?” he added, tilting his head to you in a conspiring whisper. “We’re already making progress.” 

“You mean how you just taught me that idiocy and omniscience go together like peas and carrots?” 

His impudent grin grew somewhat fixed. 

You looked back at him with wide, innocent eyes. 

“Too soon?” 

Q’s mouth slowly curved into a lascivious smile, and you realized you had picked the absolute worst moment to play with fire. 

“My dear, sometimes I think the only reason I come here is to listen to these wonderful witticisms of yours,” he silkily remarked, “You really are clever when you’re beautiful, you know.” 

A flock of butterflies erupted in your chest. 

“Getting back to business,” he gathered both of your hands in his, “You mentioned a _Get Out of Jail Free_ card?” 

“Yeah,” you answered, praying the quaver you heard in your voice was merely your ears playing tricks, “You’re temporarily off the hook. Just promise to get me a book or something the next time you screw up.” 

One of his hands glided up to your wrist, thumb gently coming to rest against your racing pulse. 

“I happen to know right where to obtain a 1986 edition of _The Globe Illustrated Shakespeare,”_ his thumb slowly drifted up and down your skin, “So be careful what you wish for.” 

Another round of butterflies joined the first. 

“That sounds about as bad as _V_ _ulcan Perspectives on Platonic Thought.”_

“Hm...” Still holding your gaze, Q deliberately smoothed his hand further along the bare skin of your forearm, “At least I know what not to get you for your birthday.” 

“Get me the pond and we’ll call it even,” you said weakly. 

“Close your eyes,” he coaxed, ignoring your offer. “This won’t take more than a moment.” 

You did as he instructed, dizzily throwing caution to the wind, but your lids had no sooner fallen shut when he announced, “There. You’re cured. Or rather, I’ve cured the spiders of you.” 

You opened your eyes, baffled – and not a little disappointed when Q relinquished his hold on you. 

“Nothing happened.” 

“Just a slight tweak to your pheromones,” he shrugged. “Think of it as a…” He paused, then thoughtfully arched a brow, “Natural form of spider-repellant.” 

“Are you saying you just made me _stink?”_ you sputtered. 

Your voice ended in a squeak, making him snicker and suddenly Q the scoundrel was back, all his airs of seduction gone. 

“Oh, from now on you’ll clear the room, darling,” he said gleefully, relishing the horror on your face, “at least as far as Arthropoda Araneae are concerned. They won’t come near you within a fifty-meter radius. But if you ever change your mind, although I can’t imagine why – what’s wrong with you now?!” 

You had thrown your arms around his neck. It was one of the rare moments you wouldn’t have minded him overstepping and taking a peek into your head – never in your life had you been rendered so wholly incapable of speech, and more desperate to be able to say _Thank you._

No more obsessively running diagnostics on every environmental barrier on the ship to ensure the failsafes were functioning properly. 

No more sleepless nights prowling the corridors and shuttlebays to check the barriers in person because even though you were the one who wrote the diagnostic programs, you still didn't trust the failsafes. 

Seeing sunshine pouring in through a door that did not lead to the Holodeck – and being able to walk over the threshold and keep striding forward. 

And maybe, _maybe_ no more having to endure the look of kindness on Dr. Crusher’s face every time you arrived in her office, ragged and bleary-eyed, both of you pretending to believe that this time you would keep that appointment with Counselor Troi as she handed you a hypospray loaded with three nights’ worth of zolaxazine. 

Q’s arms came up to support you, uncertainly at first, then with more assuredness as you started to tremble. Finally you pressed your face in his neck and gave into your tears. 

Weight you had carried for years washed out with the tide as you wept, leaving you unmoored, but back in safer harbors that could return you to the open stars. Q hadn’t fixed what was broken; instead, he had built you a bridge to take the first step, and placed the choice back in your hands whether to cross. 

Eventually your gasping sobs eased to silent crying, which became sniffles and then the occasional tear. Q allowed you to cling to him long after you quieted, and saying nothing when you shifted to curl against him and rest your cheek on his shoulder. 

Minutes, hours, days might have passed. You lapsed into a daze, unseeingly studying the room, your thoughts drifting slow and thick. 

“What do I do next?” you wondered aloud, voice faint. 

“You could start with a thank you,” Q’s grumbled voice vibrated in your ear, “You’ve spent the last hour using me as a handkerchief.” 

His surliness was a balm; sympathy would have only brought on fresh round of crying. 

You managed a watery laugh and ungracefully wiped your face on the pristine fabric of his uniform. 

“Thank you.” 

“Yes, well…” He awkwardly patted you on the back, “You’re welcome.” 

“What _is_ next, though?” you asked through an unexpected yawn. The tumult of emotions Q’s ‘gift’ had brought on suddenly left you exhausted, and all you could think of was your pillow. 

“Beauty sleep, of course,” Q briskly replied, lifting his hand to snap his fingers, “Those flour sacks under your eyes won’t cure themselves. Off to bed.” 

“You’re the only person I know who can go from being a scoundrel to a fussy English governess in under three seconds,” you said crossly, now speaking from beneath your blankets. 

“You seem to forget I’m not a person,” he snorted, leaning down to tuck you in. 

“I don’t forget,” you said simply as he drew up the covers. “I just try not to think about it very much.” 

His hands stilled. Another hairline crack appeared in his enigmatic façade of indifference, and then he carefully finished folding the blankets under your chin. 

“I suggest you keep embracing denial,” he said lightly, straightening. “It makes life far more entertaining.” 

He disappeared. 

_“I’ll come get you in the morning. Wear something…festive.”_

“You mean my dress uniform?” you asked, nose wrinkling. 

_“I said festive_ _.”_

“You’ll have to set the clocks back again,” you called after him, “or I’ll be late for my shift.” 

_“Oh-ho, what’s this? What happened to_ _‘no_ _special treatment_ _?_ _’”_

“I’m making a one-time exception for revenge.” 

A chuckle drifted by your ear. 

_“I always_ **_knew_ ** _you were my favorite.”_

Smiling, you burrowed under the covers and quickly nodded off. 

* * *

He reappears on the bed, already propped against the pillows with his legs stretched out. As usual you are curled up on your side, one elbow bent at an odd angle to keep a hand pressed over your scar — always self-conscious, even in sleep. 

Looking troubled, he watches your chest rise and fall, and mulls over the irony that is mortality. Life: The leading cause of death. 

Every pull of air in your lungs takes you one step closer to the day you will breathe your last. A snap of the fingers would solve the problem, of course. Stop the clock, one and done, all tidily wrapped up with a bow on top and ribbon to match. But you would never trust him again. 

What good is winning the battle if it comes at the cost of losing the war? 

(Not that it matters; he is still debating whether to even engage the enemy, let alone which side to defend.) 

You are fleeting, you are nothing, not even a speck. 

Yet here he sits, raptly counting your eyelashes as he would the stars in every sky. 

_ "Twas I;  but tis not I," _ he quietly recites, eyes transfixed on your sleeping face. _"_ _ I do not shame to tell you what I was, since my conversion so sweetly tastes, being the thing I am.” _

His gaze lingers on you a few moments more and then he disappears. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAAAAAANGST NOTHING BUT AAAAAAAAAANGST
> 
> Shut up, you know you love me.
> 
> Fun fact: The collected works of Shakespeare that Q mentions is Captain Picard's copy in "Hide and Q." I even did a Google image search to make sure it was the right edition.
> 
> More importantly: Signal boost! If you are a junkie for a TNG fic featuring a Q/OFC and Riker/OFC, almost encyclopedic knowledge of TNG canon, Moriarty, phenomenal characterization, not to mention simply gorgeous writing, check out Darsynia’s [Star Crossed](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1944094) series. 
> 
> Want to see snippets of future chapters and/or TNG or Loki-related randomness? I'm on [Tumblr](https://wrathkitty.tumblr.com). Come say hi!


	6. Will You Be There When I Wake Up?

_“Energizing.”_

You drift in and out of consciousness as your body rematerializes on a biobed in the middle of Sickbay. Dr. Crusher and her team descend upon you, and soon you can hear the shrill tones of a tricorder and the hiss of hyposprays loaded with drugs that will hopefully stabilize your vitals, but you are in so much pain that you wouldn’t mind handing over your mortal coil and shuffling off to Buffalo, permanently. 

“Sensory cluster is up and running...” 

“...her biofunctions are all over the place – ” 

“I need ten CCs of budeprolidine, _now...”_

The medicine enters your system. Just as you are beginning to float away, you catch the unmistakable sound of ozone and oxygen transforming to light, followed by a familiar voice. 

* * *

_“Wake her up.”_

The entity who has spent the last three years being a thorn in humanity’s side stands framed in the entrance of sickbay. His voice is deathly calm, but his rage blackens the air around him, and Beverly can plainly read the terror in his face. It is an expression she has seen countless times throughout her career. The desperation of one whose future hinges on a miracle, is facing the agony of lifelong grief, and knows that only precious few seconds remain to turn the tide. 

Why _he_ should be wearing that expression, however, is a question ripe for debate. 

She brought up her concerns to Jean-Luc over breakfast months ago, after Q’s last appearance on the Bridge, which had coincided with you sustaining a contactless brain injury followed by an impossibly rapid recovery...and multiple reports from her staff that he had been spotted hovering at your bedside. 

Jean-Luc had choked into his tea the moment she mentioned your name, nonsensically muttered something along the lines of you being “more than qualified for the job,” and then hastily changed the subject. 

Naturally, she had kept her eye on you since. Or rather would have, except you had not come by Sickbay for a dose of zolaxyzine in quite some time, not even on the yearly anniversary of your accident. 

Coincidence? Hardly. Which explains why Q is presently descending into a state of panic right before her eyes. But he can save you with a literal snap of his fingers – so what is he waiting for? 

“Wake her up,” he barks again, enunciating every word between clenched teeth. 

No one moves, save for Beverly, who continues to work feverishly on her patient. 

Q storms forward, shoving his way between the medics until he stands toe-to-toe with the CMO. The medical team is aghast, but Beverly meets his steely gaze head on. 

_“Now!”_ he shouts. 

“Either heal her yourself or get the hell out of my way,” she angrily replies. She looks over to one of the nurses and instructs, “Get the coolant membranes prepped.” 

“I’d love to do nothing more,” Q snaps back as Nurse Ogawa snatches up a nearby tray, “Which is why I need you to _wake her up.”_

“I’ve got five minutes before the damage to her tissues is permanent, _if_ she makes it,” Beverly bluntly informs him, not looking up as she reaches for the first layer of coolant. “I can’t begin the treatment while she’s awake.” 

He cringes; the mention of ‘treatment’ has plunged his mind into a memory – you, stubbornly trying to present opening arguments to the being who had once been your species’ judge, jury, and implied executioner. 

“If we’re going to do this – _thing,”_ you had told him, watching him pace the length of the room from where you sat in the center of your bed, “then you need to promise me something. _No special treatment.”_

No miracles. 

No mind reading. 

Nothing above and beyond the scope of what he might do to help anyone else on the ship. 

Absurd! 

“Your proposal positively _reeks_ of that addled mortal concept of honor,” he sniffed. “I’m a Q, not a Klingon.” 

He snapped his fingers and in the next moment towered above you in the form of Kahless the Unforgettable, decked out in full battle armor and clutching a bat’leth. 

You had stared at him as he dropped down on one knee and lunged in so close that you were forced to lean back on your elbows. 

“You do realize I could simply make you forget this entire conversation?” 

You were used to his capricious wardrobe changes but masquerading as the emperor of the Klingon afterlife was a little much, even for him, and he could tell you were debating whether to squirm out from under him and bolt for the door. 

Then you playfully tapped him on the tip of his nose, making him blink. 

“I know you could make me forget,” you said simply. “But I’m trusting you not to.” 

Another flash, and he was himself again. 

“You’re afraid of something,” he stated, his eyes flicking back and forth as he studied your face. “What is it?” 

“I don’t want everyone thinking that any good thing that happens to me isn’t something I’ve earned for myself,” you explained. 

His eyes narrowed. “I don’t like it.” 

“We all have to do things we don’t like,” you pointed out to him dryly. 

He arched a brow and let out a snorted chuckle. 

“Oh, how _quickly_ we forget, my dear,” he mocked, drawing back and moving to stand, “I don’t have to do _anything_ I don’t like. But…” 

Still gazing at you with a quizzical gleam in his eye, he shrugged. “All right,” he said indifferently. “I’ll try it on for size.” 

The command uniform he wore disappeared, replaced by the khaki shirt and shorts of a 20th century Eagle Scout. Standing tall, he lifted his right hand and solemnly intoned, “You have my word I will not interfere.” Then, wearing his wickedest smile, he gave you an exaggerated wink and added, “Scout’s honor.” 

He had thought nothing of it at the time. You both knew his interpretation of ‘help’ regarding your crew mates extended no further than using a pot of hot coffee to douse the flames if someone happened to catch themselves on fire. Never mind that he probably would have set the fire himself, but that was beside the point. 

Much to his surprise, he has kept his promise. 

Which is why you were currently surrounded by a gaggle of idiots that he wouldn’t trust to apply a bandaid let alone render you life saving aid, unconscious and rapidly succumbing to the effects of prolonged exposure to atomized radaxian gas. 

He snakes out his hand and catches Beverly’s wrist in a white knuckled grip, stopping her from applying the first membrane to your forehead. 

“Wake. Her. Up,” he grits out from between clenched teeth, “Or I will blast this ship out of existence and send whatever scraps are left of your souls straight to the Borg to be used for parts.” 

Beverly snatches her hand back and looks at him, hard. 

Eighteen people had lost their lives two years ago because of Q’s callous need to prove a point, and their memory is a painful reminder that he is a creature literally incapable of making empty threats. 

Wordless, she sets the membrane aside, picks up the hypospray, and presses the injector to your neck. 

The flinch that ghosts over Q's face when he hears your whimper does not escape her notice. 

Taking their cue from Dr. Crusher, the rest of team steps back give Q space, eyeing one another uncertainly as he approaches the head of the biobed. He plants hands flat on the mattress on either side of your shoulders, leans in close, and orders you to open your eyes. 

* * *

_Open your eyes._

His voice reaches you through a red fog of pain, but you groggily tune him out. Listening hurts too much. 

“Open your _eyes_ ,” he commands again, sharper this time. 

Reluctantly, you reluctantly drag open your lids. 

The face of the man – Person? Being? Object of your affections and oftentimes pain in the ass? — looms over you, because of _course_ he is; he would find a way to loom even if he had shrunk himself down to the size of an Belzoidian flea. 

To be fair, though, you stupidly think to yourself – the drugs churning through your veins have left you loopy – the form he wears when he is human is so tall that he cannot help but loom. Coincidence? No, you decide, probably a deliberate move on his part, just so he could find reason to complain about everyone else being too short. 

Q is calling your name again. 

“Let me fix this, you wretched little fool,” he tells you angrily when he sees he has your attention again. The tears brimming in his eyes soften his harsh choice of words as he continues, “This isn't supposed to happen – it’s a mistake, an utter cosmic fluke! I’ve checked all the other timelines—” 

His speech is elegant and precise as ever, but the theatrical lilt in his tone that had piqued your curiosity from the start sounds forced. Panicked, even. 

“You were never supposed to be on the away team, this doesn’t happen to you in any of them, and – and – ” His face crumples momentarily, but then he sucks in a shaky breath and forces out, “And none of them are _you_.” 

You blink up at him dumbly, wondering what is so different about this version of you that has left him so determined to keep you alive. 

“Keep your eyes open!” 

You’re trying, but can’t he tell that staying awake _hurts?_

_Is being a complete ass a superpower for everyone in the Continuum, or are you just special?_

Through your blurry vision you see Q’s jaw tighten, an instant giveaway that he’s reading your thoughts. 

You begin trying to recite the Ferengi Laws of Acquisition inside your head, just to annoy him. 

You get as far as _Once you have their money, never give it back_ when a muscle twitches in his face; he’s still listening in, but you’re too tired to care. Besides, he’s probably hamming all of this up anyway. Shamelessly imitating human mannerisms to pull at your heartstrings and guilt you into letting him save you. 

* * *

He keeps half an ear on your ramblings as he continues to flit in and out of timelines, moving with preternatural speed, madly combing through every alternate iteration of your life as he would a deck of cards. Somewhere in the multiverse is another version of you that’s _just_ close enough. He can insert himself in, wind the clock back a bit, and pick up from where you both left off – a course correction of sorts. He just needs to find you. 

Worryingly, there are a scant number of copies. 

In one, LaConte is late arriving to the mess hall and never spikes your raktajino. You graduate first in your class and become one of an elite few to attain the rank of first officer within five years of leaving the Academy. The second-in-command of the _USS Cochran_ is similar to you in many respects – a brilliant tactician who is known for her sense of humor, willingness to bend the rules, and easygoing demeanor. 

But she has not been plagued with nightmares that paralyzed her career, or had reason to embrace the gift of humility, and so never learned its accompanying lessons. 

She was never forced to find ways of rechanneling resentment into other avenues, learning to entertain herself with clever acts of subversion while on the job or cultivating the patience needed to help a colleague with a mild Holodeck addiction. 

The _Cochran’s_ first officer wore the same look of disdain as everyone else in attendance at Starfleet’s confidential briefing about the nuisance known as Q. It would never occur to her to try and beat him at his own game if presented with a malfunctioning replicator and overabundance of frogs. 

No, on second glance, she’s nothing like you at all. 

In another timeline, a chance encounter with an offensively charismatic marine biologist whisks you away in pursuit of other dreams. Again, there are a wealth of similarities, but the subtle differences set you completely apart. You spend your days deep beneath the ocean instead of charting stars, living out the cliché of home, hearth and family alongside your spouse, two maddeningly adorable children, their massive collection of toy ponies, and a pet draconequus. 

He cannot bring himself to investigate the timeline in which LaConte was not fast enough knocking the phaser from your hand. At present, the thought of your life being cut short in a pointless accident hits too close to home. 

The erratic beat of your heart pounds in his ears as he doggedly continues scouring the multiverse. He hates you for kneecapping him so cruelly. He could put this all to rights were it not for you. _He wouldn’t be in this position at all,_ were it not for you, and every second longer you spend fighting for air brings him closer and closer to what he secretly knew from the outset: 

You’re it. 

In a scant number of what-ifs, there exists a single timeline in which his path crosses yours, wherein he befriends you out of boredom and his essence wanders away from the infinite, narrowing his perspective to a single horizon, brighter than any other; that one day finds him pinning you to your bed in a fit of pique, only to end up bewitched and helplessly lost in your eyes. 

(Had you intentionally kept him in the dark? Or were you equally oblivious? A slight tilt of your chin, one brush of your lips against his, and his greatest fears might have been realized.) 

_It’s not safe out here. It’s wondrous, with treasures to satiate desires both subtle and gross. But it’s not for the timid._

The words he once arrogantly lobbed at Jean-Luc assail him relentlessly as he abandons his search and tries to regroup. Back to the galactic drawing board. You have lost consciousness again, and Beverly seems intent on keeping you that way. 

It would be simplest to ignore your wishes and heal you. He isn’t afraid of incurring your wrath, he has irritated you plenty of times. Seeing you angry at him was akin to watching a tempest in a very, very pretty teapot – no, he is afraid of losing your faith. 

Keeping your trust means doing nothing. 

Doing nothing means watching you suffer, possibly die, because of a promise that even he, in all his omniscience, will never understand. 

His hand hovers by your cheek but almost every inch of exposed skin is raw and scalded. A part of his soul that he cannot, _will_ not yet acknowledge is slipping away right before his eyes, and the harder he tries to hold on, the faster the gossamer threads of your life force unravel and if he cannot convince you to let him save you, soon he will be left holding only remnants of the one future he cannot alter as he sees fit. He can weave you back together, but you would never be the same. 

“She’s out of time, Q.” 

He looks down at your ravaged face and makes his decision. 

* * *

_Never make fun of a Ferengi’s mother...Nothing is more important than your health, except for your money..._

Your voice trails off. You’re not in Sickbay anymore. 

Confused, you take a quick glance around and experience momentary déjà vu – you’ve been here before, but you don’t remember the place being so dimly lit. 

Are you dead? Because if this is the afterlife, the least somebody could’ve done was left you a flashlight. 

_..._ _You can do it._

The disembodied voice comes from behind, making you jump. You spin on your heel but all you see is the same endless expanse of silver-grey nothing. 

You are debating your options when Q appears out of nowhere. Judging by the stony set of his face, it is doubtful that his was the encouraging voice you had just heard, and his eyes coldly bore into yours as he lifts his hand and goes to snap his fingers. 

_Do it and I’ll never speak to you again,_ you threaten, taking a step back. 

_Don’t worry,_ he sneers, _I’m going to make you forget it ever happened_ _._

You’re back to being the lowly human again, it seems. 

_Fine,_ you challenge, barely keeping reign on your temper, _but **you’ll** never be able to forget it. And you’ll spend the rest of my life wondering if the person tagging along with you is who I was really supposed to be_ _._

He flinches, hand dropping back to his side, but he will not be stymied so easily. He flashes over to you, seizes you by the shoulders and leans down, angrily searching your face. 

_The only reason we’re in this predicament at all is thanks to your blasted sense of human morality,_ he says, spitting out this last word like a profanity. 

_Sorry_ _,_ you’re not the least bit apologetic, _Old habits die hard, I guess_ _._

Livid, he releases you and begins to pace, hands clasped behind his back. 

_Tell me, my dear, what will you do for your next trick?_ he mockingly demands, circling you. _You’ve already practically burned yourself at the stake. Perhaps you need some inspiration. Hmm. Martyrdom 2.0? Ritual sacrifice? I’d build you an altar, but after this little performance, I’m beginning to think you might actually call my bluff and offer yourself up as tribute._

You sigh wearily and study the misty air, letting him fume. 

_Well?_ he presses when you remain silent. _Go on, tell me what made those Ferengis so deserving that you’d **literally** throw yourself into the fire._

He gives you no time to formulate a reply, not that it matters; you don’t quite know the answer to the question yourself. 

_You ridiculous scrap of flotsam!_ he accuses, storming back over to continue his tirade. _Their entire species’ greatest evolutionary achievement was learning to secrete all three of their brain cells out from their ears instead of their nostrils. Extinction’s too good for them; they’d all be dead by now but they’re so repulsive that not even the universe can be bothered to do the deed._

_The chamber was Ferengi-sized_ _,_ you protest, trying to explain. _I was the only one on the away team who could fit inside and knew how to fix the leak. And I got it sealed in time –_

Q tosses his head with a derisive snort of laughter. 

_Congratulations_ _,_ _Ensign,_ he bitterly intones. _Good luck avoiding that promotion now_ _._ _I’d pin the pip on your collar myself if I knew you might live long enough to wear it_ _..._

A frown crosses his face. 

_Please stop being melodramatic,_ you complain as he suddenly reaches for you and swipes at your forehead. _You’re just making this –_ _hey, are you even listening to me?_

_No,_ he answers curtly, drawing his hand back. He peers narrowly at the dampness that came away on his fingertips, then absently wipes his hand on his pocket. _And you’ve still not answered my question._

_That’s because you’ve been so busy scolding me that I forgot what you asked_ _,_ you snap _._ _I know I’m basically embryonic compared to you, but –_

_Oh, don’t give yourself that much credit; you’re practically primordial,_ he jeers, cutting you off. 

_God, you are **such** an ass!_

_I’m sorry,_ he blurts out, and grabs your hand before you can stomp away. 

You let him turn you back around but refuse to meet his gaze until you feel a touch at your chin. 

_That gaggle of gnomes needed your help_ _,_ _and you_ _ran to save them without a moment’s thought_. The venom in his voice is gone; there is only quiet defeat and the hurt you see mirrored in his eyes. _Why will you not do the same for me?_

It takes time for his words to sink in. You gape up at him, stunned. You’ve seen Q petulant plenty of times, but the way he is behaving now is reminiscent of a 20th century sitcom. He might as well fling his arms out and whine the clichéd, ‘But what about _MY_ needs?’ 

_You – you're_ _a Q,_ you stammer incredulously, protesting. _You don’t need my help_ _;_ _you don’t need help from anyone._

He stiffens, eyes snapping shut. You feel his fingertips twitch against your chin as his hand eases closed, and then he slowly pulls back with a shudder. The long, stilted pause that follows tells you what he won’t say, louder than if he shouted in your ear, and it is at that moment you discover you have successfully misaligned every piece in the puzzle. 

_You don’t need my help_ _,_ you numbly whisper, slowly shaking your head in disbelief. _You – you need..._

You can’t say it. 

You can’t _fathom_ it. Q has set your mind reeling countless times before, but never like this. 

He opens his eyes and sees that you have finally connected the dots. 

_Let me fix you,_ he begs, crestfallen. He reaches for you, hesitates, then adds a futile, _Just this once._

And with that plaintive assurance, he inadvertently hauls you to a crossroads and deposits you in the middle of an abandoned intersection. You still feel his presence at your side, but the next step is yours. 

There is no ‘just this once’ with Q. 

Somewhere between that day on the Bridge and the moment he decided you were more than just another peon in the dolorous ant colony that was humanity, you had caught his attention, and then his affection. 

It makes no sense to either of you. Nevertheless, here you are. The road behind you is already beginning to fade. 

If you let him save you now, he will never _not_ come to your rescue. You would have to leave the _Enterprise,_ probably Starfleet altogether. The jig is up. Patient confidentiality or none, word will get out and it won’t be long before everyone starts resenting you for having a Q in your back pocket, even if yours has promised not to indulge your every whim. 

Which direction do you go? Walk along the avenue or should you take the highway? Hunker down on the pavement and wait for the light to change? Forge your own path and search for a wormhole? 

The compass needle idly twirls, revealing nothing. 

You nervously wipe the sweat from your eyes and try to think. The question itself isn’t hard, it’s the answer that has you mired down in the swamp. 

The future you want requires a wild, improbable act of blind faith – and then actually taking the leap. 

It means accepting the cost of admission, and leaving a part of yourself behind in order to be with someone who exists outside of time. 

It means trusting that he won’t interfere with your mortality to try and keep you with him forever. 

Hardest of all – it means having the guts to believe that you’ll always measure up, even when the little voice in your head says otherwise. 

Or, you can stick to the road you know and instead of placing your life into Q’s waiting hands, take your chances on the art of modern medicine to keep you alive. 

But a life without him in it means you will never be able to truly breathe again. 

He makes you laugh. 

He’s mapped out the distance between teasing you and outright antagonizing you, and most days conducts himself accordingly. 

He has taught you to reconceptualize the world around you, reigniting your zeal for exploration and drive to learn. Likewise, you’ve proven to him that an existence that is smaller in scope doesn’t have to be any less entertaining. He just needed to shut up long enough for you to drag him down the rabbit hole. 

He has shown you glimpses of the cosmos, but carefully, and whisks you away the moment he senses your eagerness to see everything has started to outstrip the very real limitations of your brain. 

Speaking of… 

Even your own imagination cannot keep you upright anymore. Your injuries have started invading your dreamscape, and Q catches you as your knees give out. Stricken, he wordlessly sinks to the ground with you limp in his arms. 

_What’s happening?_ you ask him, bewildered. The crimson fabric of his shirt feels hot, far warmer than what he adopts as his usual body temperature. _Why can’t I move?_

He readjusts you across his lap and takes an uneasy glance around, seeing something you can’t. 

_Your mind is a deranged example of art imitating life, is what,_ he finally answers. He looks back down at you and explains, _I’ve stopped time for the moment, but you’d try the patience of a saint_ _—_ _I’d_ _know; I met them all._

Even at death’s door, your curiosity gets the better of you. 

_Who’s your favorite?_

_Augustine, of course_ , he says with a snort. _He’s the only one who could take a joke, even if he was an absolute bore._ Sobering, he tentatively smooths your damp hair from your face and says, _Now stop holding me to promises I can’t keep._

_Or you’ll do what?_

He knots his brows and tries to look severe, but his voice cracks as he replies, _Or I’ll turn you into a Talaxian catfish and gift you to Picard._

This prospect makes you burst into giggles. 

_Fine, but I want you to upgrade his fish tank first. Make it fancy._

You wait for Q to smile back, but there is only sorrow etched in the laugh lines framing his eyes and mouth. In this moment he appears more human than you have ever seen him. 

_Please don’t be sad,_ you tell him softly. _It’ll be okay._

He goes to speak, but instead gathers you up in the crook of his arm and folds you tightly against his chest. 

You really ought to feel a little more invested in staying alive, you muse as he holds you, but the line you’ve drawn in the sand isn’t arbitrary. You are terrified of losing touch with the things that make you...normal. Human or not, having easy access to an undo button in perpetuity is its own type of gateway drug, and Q is the antithesis of ‘everything in moderation.’ 

Nope. You're going to stick to your guns. No special treatment. 

But... 

The thought of a universe forever deprived of Q’s irrepressible brand of chaos is unbearable to you. Improbabilities and impossibilities and paradoxes aside, you are marked upon his heart, and losing you will extinguish a light in him for all eternity. Worse, it risks leaving him so embittered about ‘lower life forms’ that he might find reason to stuff LaConte back inside a paperweight or turn him into a science project. You don't need that kind of guilt on your conscience. 

Not to mention saving a trio of sexist Ferengis who kept up a running commentary about the size of your breasts while you were in the midst of being flash fried is a pretty stupid way to die... 

(You hadn’t even had a chance to queue up the bagpipes.) 

Fuck it, you compulsively decide. 

There are plenty of crosses – ideally ones of the metaphorical variety only – you can hang your hat on later, and in the meantime, Mariner might be able to help you get transferred to the _Quito_ _._ You aren’t ready to scuttle your career just yet, and if anyone can do damage control, it’s her _._

_Q?_

His embrace tightens, and you feel him take a tremulous gulp of air. He is in no state to make threats, but he tries anyway. 

_Tell me to cheer up and I will smite you right here on the spot._

His words sound thick, as if he is fighting to swallow a lump in his throat. 

_I need a favor._

He jerks back and looks down at you sharply. His eyes are wet. The mask has slipped, and for the very first time you are able to catch more than a fleeting glimpse of his lingering humanity. It is not an entity cradling you in his arms, but a man hopelessly lost on the brink. He’s pinpointed every star in the universe but you’re the only one who can lead him home, and you don’t have the heart to leave him adrift any longer. 

_Can you help me steal some latinum from a gaggle of gnomes?_

Q stammers your name, still not understanding. 

It takes a worrisome amount of effort to lift a hand up just far enough to touch his cheek. Fingers trembling, you clumsily wipe away one errant tear and then meet his eyes. 

_I’m letting you save me, dummy. But you have to promise to keep me human._

His eyes widen. 

A thunderclap of relief – not your own – crashes through you as Q finally grasps your meaning (followed by admiration that you had spotted the loophole before he had even thought to put it in to exploit). 

_Remind me to never let you read the fine print_ _,_ he says with a shaky laugh. 

_You’re insufferable_ _,_ you grumble, pulling a face. 

_One of my many value-added services, my dear,_ he quips. The sly humor is already returning to his voice, but his smirk gentles when he sees you are still hesitant. 

_Trust me,_ he tells you softly. 

You do. 

_Will you be there when I wake up?_

Q gives you a weary, joyful smile. 

_Only one way to find out._

He coaxes you to close your eyes, and with a snap of his fingers, delicious, bone-freezing cold begins to sink into your skin. 

As the unbearable heat ebbs and your vision starts to blur, you swear you could feel cool lips gently brush your forehead, and faintly hear a voice that you’ll recognize someday. 

_I told you so_ _,_ _my dear_ _._ _You can do it._

_Do what?_ you want to know, struggling to stay awake. 

_You’ll find out._ He sounds like he’s holding back laughter. _In any case, I’ll be watching_ _._ _And if you’re very lucky, I’ll drop by to say hello from time to time._

Yes, he’s definitely laughing at you. 

_See you_ _..._ _out there_ _._

The dream dissolves and takes your memories of this place – and your friendly neighborhood phantom – with it. 

* * *

He must fight the instinct to instantly return you to pristine health. 

For reasons he cannot explain, he tries to uphold his original promise as much as he can — accelerating your healing just enough until he senses your body is capable of doing the rest, aided by the inept ministrations of Dr. Beverly Crusher. 

(Later you are amused to find he took one small liberty. Your scar is gone. You don’t miss it.) 

He sits awkwardly perched on one hip on the edge of your bed afterwards, holding your hand in both of his, watching you sleep with rapt attention. His eyes are alternately transfixed on your face, or your biofunction monitor. 

His stillness is eerie. The only time he moves is when you twitch in your sleep, which causes him to startle in tandem. 

He says nothing as the staff make their rounds, barely acknowledges Dr. Crusher’s presence when she comes by to take your vitals – but the rigid set of his shoulders eases subtly when she quietly tells him you will be fine, and as soon as she steps away, he scoots closer and leans over to cup your cheek in his hand. 

His thumb slowly drifts up and down the newly healed skin. Aside from some reddish patches here and there, there is no lingering evidence of your injuries. 

The psychological effects are likely to be another story, however, he grimly mulls. Oh, well, what’s one more argument? You are alive. He can cope with your nightmares. And perhaps with the appropriate bribe, he can enlist Deanna Troi in helping to convince you that his is a much more efficient way of solving the problem than availing yourself of her services. 

“You’re here...” 

His freezes, watching in astonishment as you sleepily nuzzle his palm. 

“I told you I would be,” he says quietly. 

“Will you stay?” 

Your voice is thin and reedy, and the worry he hears in your question is...gratifying. You don’t want company – you want him. 

“Yes,” he reassures, then adds in a mutter, “So long as your shrew of a presiding physician permits it.” 

You suspiciously crack open an eye. 

“Are you being nice?” 

He lifts a brow and smirks. 

“You wound me, my dear. I’m always nice.” 

You open both eyes and glare. 

He beams at you, chuckling. You are semi-conscious, high as a kite, and likely cannot even recall your own name, but your gaze is no less reproachful. 

“Oh, ye of little faith,” he says, heaving a sigh in mock disappointment. 

You are already lost again in a fog of high-grade Bolian morphine. 

“Pond,” you mumble nonsensically, “I want the pond…” 

His smile softens. He’ll make you a thousand ponds. 

“An incentive I’m only too happy to provide – if you go back to sleep.” 

Your cheek is still cradled in his hand, and the breath momentarily leaves him when you turn your head slightly and kiss his palm. 

“Thank you...” 

“For what?” he asks curiously. 

He strains to hear you, but the only intelligible words he manages to catch before your eyes drift shut are his name, Augustine, and catfish. 

* * *

Picard makes his appearance late into the night. 

His pauses at the entrance of sickbay to briefly study you both – an omnipotent entity holding vigil at the bedside of a member of his crew. It is an admittedly odd sight, but he wisely refrains from making any comment and steps over to confer with Beverly, who sits inventorying supplies in her office. 

“I’m surprised you didn’t impose a strict ‘No Visitors’ policy,” he remarks, strolling in. 

“Me, too,” she wryly replies as he takes the seat on the opposite side of her desk. She makes a note on her PADD and then sets it aside. “I keep waiting for him to give me a reason to revoke his hall pass, but...” 

“But...?” prompts Picard. 

Beverly sighs. 

“You should have seen him, Jean-Luc. He was distraught.” 

Oh, please. 

He rolls his eyes and leaves them to their gossiping, paying them little attention over the next few minutes – until he hears Picard utter the words, “Who knew it was possible to tame a Q.” 

The Q in question grits his teeth, goes to snap his fingers, and then reminds himself that he will never hear the end of it if you wake up to discover he has thrown Picard and Crusher into temporary pyramidal confinement along with LaConte and all of Ferenginar. 

(Oops.) 

Instead, he scoops you up from the bed, keeping you still wrapped in the blanket, and casts a contemptuous scowl in the direction of your audience. 

“How can you people expect anyone to properly convalesce with such a ruckus going on?” he loudly complains, and watches with satisfaction as Picard and Beverly’s heads whip around to look at him through the office window. 

Predictably, Beverly storms out with Picard close at her heels. 

“Just where do you think you’re going with my patient?” she demands accusingly, marching over. 

A myriad of replies come to mind, each more lascivious than the next. 

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” he snickers.

He takes his leave and returns to your quarters, but keeps half an ear on the going-ons back in Sickbay as he walks to your bed and tucks you in. 

With timing so precise he could have clocked it with an egg timer, Picard taps his communicator. 

_“Computer, what is the location of Ensign –”_

“She’s in her quarters, you underbearing imbecile,” he snaps, heading him off at the pass. His voice emanates from the ceiling above Beverly and Picard’s heads. 

_“With who? You?”_

“No, Jean-Luc,” he drolly retorts, “I thought I’d bring Worf in to babysit.” 

Unable to resist an opportunity to send Jean-Luc into an apoplectic attack, he gleefully begins to taunt, dropping lewd hints about his not-so-honorable intentions. He concludes his barrage of verbal innuendo by littering Sickbay with confetti and then appropriating all the medical tricorders. 

Snickering, he settles in next to you on top of the covers but soon grows bored. 

It’s too quiet. 

“Just another day at the office,” he finally remarks to the ceiling. “A dreadful one.” 

R croaks quietly from the terrarium, as if in agreement. He snaps his fingers, and a few crickets appear behind the glass. He isn’t sure if you had time to feed them yesterday. 

The sensation of you trying to worm under his arm draws his attention away, sparing him from making further small talk with the wildlife. He glances over at you, confused. 

“M’cold,” you whimper. 

You’re shivering, he observes. Odd…he had taken care to cover you up with the blankets. Then he recalls a comment Crusher had made in passing earlier, when he was decidedly not paying attention – that it will be several days before your body relearns how to regulate its internal temperature. 

He starts to tell the computer to warm the ambient air when another idea occurs to him, followed by an assault of second thoughts. 

After a long, hard minute of deliberation, he turns onto his side and folds down the blanket. 

You don’t hesitate. No sooner has he joined you under the bedclothes, you have wrapped yourself in his arms and taken possession of his shoulder in lieu of your pillow, and what he assumed was sure to be an awkward negotiation of assorted limbs proves to be remarkably simple. 

He watches, entranced, as the pinched set of your face relaxes, and your muscles slowly unlock. Soon your shivering subsides, and he knows you have fallen back into a deep sleep when he feels you melt into his chest. 

A bizarre compulsion to sigh goes through him. 

Prior to his banishment from the Continuum, his mortal form had been a fabrication, an external shell designed for outward appearances only. What need did he have to experience being too hot or too cold, or having to sneeze? 

During his brief exile, he was too busy being frightened of everything to make an extensive review of the many undistinctive features that came with his human body. 

Post-banishment, however, his innate curiosity got the better of him. He has dabbled in all five senses, sampled a wide variety of cuisine (he started with chocolate), and explored the realms of proprioception, involuntarily reflexes, and having an itch he that could not scratch. 

Meeting you prompted him to dig deeper. 

It is a form that is remarkably base, bound by more limitations than freedoms – capable of seeing only a fraction of the electromagnetic spectrum, in possession of brains too narrow to truly expand their horizons, all held captive by the laws of physics that exist within a singular multiverse. 

But it is only through human eyes that he can discern the subtleties in your moods and the brightness of your smile. As his true self, he is too evolved to feel the surge of pride in his chest whenever you are asked to join the away team, the jarring thrill of adrenaline when you catch him looking at you too long, the tingling warmth that accompanies nascent thoughts of lust. 

He experimentally draws in a slow, deep breath, trying the sensation on for size as if he were selecting a new shirt. The movement causes you to stir; he softly hushes you back to sleep and resumes his pondering. 

“I’m lucky,” he realizes, voicing his thoughts in a whisper, “Being spared the agony of not realizing what was most precious to me until after it was lost.” His eyes flicker over to your sleeping face, then grow distant. “And when I ask myself if I am deserving of such a mercy, and I am forced to answer no...” 

The sting of unwanted self-discovery leaves the taste of ashes on his tongue, and the corner of his mouth tilts up in a bitter smile. 

“I am a lesser being than Picard,” he admits, at last putting words to this long-avoided realization. “I once made him beg for my help, did I ever tell you?” 

(He hasn’t. It is not one of his prouder moments and he is grateful you had not been there to witness it.) 

“He would’ve gotten down on his knees, if he had to...” His voice trails off as he recalls how Jean-Luc had unashamedly set aside all pride to save his people and his ship. 

_You wanted to frighten us. We're frightened. You wanted to show us that we were inadequate. For the moment, I grant that. You wanted me to say I need you. I NEED YOU!_

He flinches and resettles his gaze on you. 

“Next time – well, so long as you wish to keep me around, there won’t be a next time. But if there were to be...” 

In what is becoming an all-too familiar habit, dampness prickles at his eyes, his throat feels strangled, and he must fight the compulsion to clutch onto you and bury his face in your neck. 

“I’ll get down on my knees,” he chokes. “I’ll do anything.” 

You continue to sleep in his arms, blithely unaware of these nighttime confessions. One day he will tell you everything. Beneath the surface of his ill-gotten reputation is context that paints a very different picture of his meddling with other species over the millennia, but it is a story he is not yet ready to tell. 

He takes a breath and recomposes himself. 

He had called you a wretched little fool, before. A regretful choice of words; hopefully you wouldn’t remember it when you woke up. 

You are neither wretched nor a fool, he muses – but you certainly are fool _ish,_ to care about him. 

He is equally foolish to let you. 

Hiding you from the Continuum will be no small task. The rumor about Q and his pet human is old news by now, but the continued assumption that said human is a follicly-challenged middle-aged starship captain ought to throw them off for a little longer – especially considering that a human of Jean-Luc's standing is likelier to capture his attention than a mouthy, low-ranking former arachnophobe, no matter how clever she is. 

Regardless, he must be careful. He is an old hand at ignoring directives from his superiors but moving forward he will have to employ a subtler form of malicious compliance. He refuses to put you in harm’s way, lest you end up once again occupying the VIP seat in Sickbay. 

Crusher’s remark idly wanders through his mind – _You should have seen him, Jean Luc. He was distraught…_

What a ridiculous notion! A Q was never distraught…except on special occasions. 

And you were the walking definition of a special occasion. 

(Fine, perhaps he’d been a _bit_ distraught. You had been practically parboiled.) 

Mortal foibles were more contagious than the common cold, he ruefully observes as he studies your serene face. He has never been sick a day in his past, present or future, and certainly doesn’t intend to start now. 

But…he can tolerate the odd _sneeze_ , here and there. For you, he is willing to investigate the germ-laden Pandora’s box of human emotions, so long as he is the one to decide when he is good and ready to kick open the lid. 

He’s ready. Nearly. He just needs you to wake up first. 

Without knowing why, he compulsively leans in and presses a gentle kiss to your forehead. 

“Here’s to a lifetime of poor judgement, my dear,” he murmurs, speaking into your skin. 

He draws back and tucks your head under his chin, smiling when he hears your contented sigh and feels you nestle in tight. 

His eyes slowly flutter closed. 

He falls asleep and dreams of you. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


End file.
